The Soldier
by undetectedthoughts
Summary: After three years of faking his own death, Sherlock returns to London to find it's a very different place for him. While he tries to get back onto his feet, he's left to deal with these changes alone. Drug use & strong friendship. Post Reichenbach Fall.
1. The Soldier

_Note: _This is a fic I wrote in dedication to my sister as a part of a challenge between us, initially. Since she liked the story a lot, I've decided to put it up under a new FF account for the enjoyment for all other Sherlock fans.

I write fanfiction often, but I've never written for this fandom before. I'm more of a HP-kid. I'm really looking forwards to seeing peoples' thoughts and opinions on my work here, so please do leave reviews at your leisure. While writing this story I had so much inspiration, I ended up finishing it in two days flat. It's a new record. I'm really pleased about it and I hope you will be too.

Oh, I should also mention that this entire fic was written to the sound of the Pixies' "_Where is my mind?_", as well as to the sound of _Schubert_. You should all have a listen to that music to get a good feel of this story.

**_Edit:_** I've decided I will be continuing this fic because I enjoyed writing it so much. It may end up as something like a small series.

* * *

_**The Soldier**_

"Here we are!" Lestrade said happily, opening the front door wide.

Sherlock stepped inside the new house, making his way through a narrow corridor that greeted him. A strong smell of plaster and new paint met his nose. The walls were bright and cream-coloured, slightly off compared to the plain, darker carpeting beneath his feet. The living room and kitchen were very unfurnished. Doing his best to not offend Lestrade, Sherlock turned to face him.

"It will do for now," he said shortly. "Assuming, of course, I don't have to stay here for longer than a few weeks."

"This'll only be until we get you a proper place," Lestrade assured him. "It's the best the Department was able to supply, given the circumstance."

Sherlock smiled shortly, falsely. Very few people in the British police department fully believed that he was innocent, so far. Those who believed he was a criminal most certainly didn't try to hide their disapproval, either. It would be months – perhaps even years – before Sherlock was treated normally in England. Moriarty had almost fully gotten what he wanted.

"This is good though, isn't it?" Lestrade asked cheerfully. "Getting things back to normal again, getting you back in good old London."

"Let's just hope that I can get 'good old' London back to it's normal state too."

"Don't go thinking it'll be easy, Sherlock," Lestrade warned. He was reaching in his pocket for something, until he withdrew a single key on a chain. "You'll be wanting this, I'm sure."

"Thank you."

"Now, I can't stay here long, but you've got a house phone all set up and ready. And you've got a new laptop, of course."

"Yes," Sherlock said. Those were almost the only items in the living room, besides two armchairs, a table, and a cheap TV.

"If you need me for anything, you've got my house number and my mobile."

"Why would I need you?"

"Well, in case anything happens."

Did Lestrade think Sherlock would break down under the pressure England was putting on him now? Sherlock wasn't sure. He decided not to think about it too much. A more important thought struck him.

"Do send me John's address when you get the time."

"Sorry?"

"John Watson," Sherlock said clearly. "Surely you haven't forgotten him?"

"No, 'course not," Lestrade said quickly. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Well, I personally haven't spoken to him in, I dunno, at least a few months."

Sherlock didn't see how this was relevant. It was no surprise at all that John had stopped working for Lestrade – Sherlock was John's only connection to the police force in general. Removing a phone from his pocket, Sherlock looked at it, bored by Lestrade's hesitance.

"Send me the address nonetheless. I wish to pay John a visit."

Lestrade seemed close to saying something, but he stopped. He stared at Sherlock with a concerned gaze. "Alright... I'll send you an email right when I get home."

They didn't say much after this. Lestrade left. Sherlock made his way upstairs and examined the cheap furnishing of his new bedroom. He began unpacking his heavy suitcase, thinking about what he'd say to John later on.

He waited two days before going to see him. If anyone had asked Sherlock why he took so long, he would have told them that he was busy with work, busy setting things up in his temporary house. In honesty, however, he was nervous. He was put off by Lestrade's hesitance the more he thought about it and he didn't have the words to say to John. Only after two days could he convinced himself, once and for all, that things were going to be alright. He was not dead, after all, and he had valid reasons for disappearing for three solid years.

Sherlock was impressed by John's new house when he approached it. It was made of dark stones, with large windows set out neatly and evenly into it, and a well-kept garden surrounding the whole property. Sherlock wasn't sure if he had reached the right address as he headed for the front door, pulling up his collar against the wind. The sun was setting behind him, shedding no warmth over him as Autumn approached. This house can't have been owned by John alone, unless he had been promoted a lot more than seemingly possible these last few years.

Sherlock used the gold knocker on the door, hitting to three times. The door was painted a shiny, sticky red colour. It had been painted perhaps a year ago. Just after John moved in? Sherlock couldn't be sure. He didn't know what John had been doing these last three years, not where he had lived, who he lived with, and how he spent his time. He wanted to find out. He wanted to tell John how he had dealt with America, how he had spent all of his time there.

The door opened. John appeared. There was a paused moment, a silence, where neither of them spoke. Sherlock was distracted, first of all, by a gold ring on John's left hand. Then, almost as immediately, by the strange look in his eyes. John wasn't tearful, nor angry. He stared at Sherlock blankly, not a moment of surprise gripping him. He looked at Sherlock as if he were a stranger.

"Lestrade told me you might show up soon," John said, breaking the silence.

"Oh," was Sherlock's first response. Realising quickly that John found his loss of words odd, Sherlock tried to pull himself together. "Well, I'm... I'm glad he told you."

This was a lie, of course. Sherlock feared that John was angry about his return, especially when he looked away in the next moment. Sherlock watched him closely. He had expected to see that strangely vast arrange of emotions Lestrade and Molly and everyone else had shown. There was nothing. John avoided his gaze as if this meeting made him uncomfortable, as if there were several other things he'd rather be doing right now. He was bored. He was exasperated.

"Do you want to come inside?" John asked. There was something dead in his eyes, something changed.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Thank you."

John's house was warm and comfortable. It was rich with fine wood beams and a crooked, dark staircase leading up. Every room had horrid modern furniture. John hadn't decorated anything in the living room – it wasn't at all his taste. He had clearly chosen the house mostly, but whoever else lived here enjoyed an expensive taste in sturdy metal tables and 70s-esque shaped chairs, made far too recently.

"Sherlock, this is Mary," John's voice suddenly called out.

Sherlock turned around. He had just spent a good solid twenty seconds giving an orange lampshade a critical, hateful look. Mary was sitting on an armchair to his left, a sweet smile on her lips. John was leaning against the chair's arm, Mary's arm wrapped around his waist. She was already too clingy, too desperate to show public affection.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted. He stepped forwards, avoiding a low coffee table with pointy corners. She took his hand to shake. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure John has talked about me more than a few times these last few years."

A crease formed between Mary's eyebrows. She let go of his hand, tilting her head to the side. "Actually, I'm not sure I recall ever hearing John was an acquaintance of yours."

Sherlock's eyes moved immediately to John's. He was looking away.

"Do sit down," Mary offered.

"Yes," Sherlock said quickly, turning to a chair. He sat, feeling uncomfortable in this crowded living room, with these hard, metal-plated armchairs.

A strong silence followed this. Sherlock decided to break it.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard about me," he began.

"No," Mary said slowly, that same confused look in her eyes, "I have heard about you... but I didn't know how you know my John."

Still, John wasn't looking at Sherlock. For the first time, Sherlock was annoyed. In three years, John had never mentioned him? Was John under the illusion that this was healthy in a relationship? Or normal, moreover?

"We worked together," Sherlock told her, never taking his eyes from John.

"Together? The two of you?" she repeated.

She can't have been in England three years ago, when Sherlock had fallen to his death, falling from his reputation, falling from his normal life. To his surprise, he realised she was an American. Why had John specifically chosen to marry someone who hadn't heard a word about the tale of Sherlock Holmes?

"We worked on investigations," Sherlock said. He gave her a confused look, one he hoped would annoy her. "Didn't you know?"

She was dressed in a horrid salmon-pink and light brown shirt, with black trousers that went up to the waist. Very fold of the 70s. She was older than John by at least five years. She didn't work outdoors, Sherlock could see by her casual posture that she had to work from home. Not to mention, there was a phone sticking out of her pocket, to which her attention was drawn every few minutes. She was a business woman. For what, Sherlock couldn't be sure. Certainly not anything to do with fashion or home furnishing.

"John and I don't like to talk about work," Mary explained. Her voice was calm and false. Her pale brown eyes and clumpy eye makeup made Sherlock irritated under her gaze. "It's too stressful."

"Then how unfortunate it is for him," Sherlock said softly.

"Sorry?"

"Well, it's clear you work from home. On electronics, dawn until dusk, writing emails to clients and receiving phonecalls more often than you can deal with."

"Who told you –?"

"Told me?" Sherlock laughed, "No one has told me a thing about you, Mrs Watson. In fact, I hadn't the faintest idea that you existed before I walked through your front door very few minutes ago."

"Then how do you know what I work as?"

"I don't," Sherlock corrected her, "I merely know how you work. It's a stressful job, I am sure. One that no makeup can hide the affects of."

Her hand moved immediately to her tired eyes, where dark bags hung and shone through under a soft powering of foundation.

"If you take no interest in the work John did or does, do not pretend for a moment, Mrs Watson, that you avoid talk of work to make your lives easier. I assume that one of your parents puts pressure on you about the fact that you are, clearly, far more rich –"

"Sherlock," John interrupted warningly.

His tone was serious. It was the only thing that made Sherlock pause, but instead of finding the stern, slightly amused look John used to give him, he was annoyed. Very annoyed. Mary had blushed in anger.

There were many more things Sherlock could have said. He was tempted to, to annoy John and Mary and to prove that he wasn't a common person whom John might have simply forgotten. He instead forced himself to stay silent. He was furious too, now.

To break the awkward silence, John said in a strain, "Fancy a drink?"

"Oh no, honey," Mary said quickly, forcefully, "we can't have guests for very long. We have a meeting tonight with the Dursleys. Don't you remember?"

Sherlock stood up. He couldn't be here for a moment longer.

"No need to worry," he said in a slightly higher voice than normal, "I only wanted to pay a quick visit. To see how you were, John, and to meet your – ah – lovely wife."

Mary glared at him, but he didn't cast her a second glance.

John looked bored, uncaring. "Well, pop by any time."

Sherlock would avoid his offer at all costs. He was furious, but there was no point in picking away at Mary's character just to vent his frustration. Sherlock thanked them for their time crudely and made his way out of the house. He already hated Mary. He hated most people when he met them, sure, but this was worse. Her falseness and her conspicuousness was too irritating to take. Sherlock made his way down the street, never looking back at their house.

What he had expected from this meeting, he wasn't sure. Out of every possible outcome he had expected from this meeting, he had never thought of this. John didn't care about his return. He was utterly unmoved by any of it. Sherlock would have preferred him to be angry. At least that was a normal reaction. The only thing that managed to annoy John was when Sherlock pointed out exactly how flawed Mary was, and this was only because it was the truth.

On his way home, Sherlock couldn't work out what had happened. He told himself, for the sake of simplicity, that John's reaction must have been normal, even if it was unexpected. Human emotions were a complex thing. The thought of John no longer caring at all stressed Sherlock to an extent he couldn't get comfortable with. He didn't know what he had expected...

Back at his new house, the sun had already set. Sherlock was put off by the smell of the house. He felt restless when he looked at the vast open space and the lack of anything personal around him. The house was expensive, but instead of this meaning it was comfortable, it was instead very large and very empty. He hated it here. It was too quiet. Sherlock normally liked the quiet, it helped him to think, it calmed him down, but this was different. This was an empty, cold silence. Every distant noise he heard caused him to pause and listen.

He realised, a few hours later, he was still waiting for the sounds that had accompanied his life at Baker Street three years ago. Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable armchair, thinking about it. He missed the sound of John typing, the sound of his voice when he complained about odd experiments being left in the fridge or music being played at two O'clock in the morning. Sherlock smiled at the memory, but his smile soon faltered. He realised, quite suddenly, he would never live with John again...

Early the next morning, Sherlock was awoken by a text from Lestrade. A girl had called the police in the early hours of the morning screaming and panicking about how her father was suddenly lying dead with a smashed-in skull. The police were at a loss to understand what could have happened. The man's body was found in a locked library within a locked house. There was no break-in. There was no sign of a weapon. Sherlock called Lestrade for more details.

"He lived alone," Lestrade's fuzzy voice said on the other end of the phone. "It's a bit of luck, really, that he died right before his daughter's weekly visit. Would have been a nasty sight, to meet a corpse like that a few days old. Since no one was there –"

"Yes. Yes, I get it," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "He was alone, so his death can't have been the result of murder. So tell me, what else do we know about the crime?"

"Well, I dunno about it not being murder," Lestrade said slowly. "I mean, there were no signs of a weapon –"

"Yes, but there were no signs of a break-in either. What evidence have you taken from the victim's body so far?"

"All he had on him was three books and a single key. Rare books, as well. Some of us think he might have been running from someone –"

"What sort of man was our victim?"

"Well, he collected books, obviously. Lots of them. Half the house is used as a library, the other half just extra storage space."

"He was found dead in a library, I presume?"

"Yeah, but without a weapon."

"Yes, I got that, thank you. I'll be right over, just give me the address."

Lestrade did so. When he was finished, Sherlock hung up, grabbing his coat and leaving this empty house eagerly. It was a bright Autumn day, with leaves falling throughout the streets of London. Sherlock called for a cab when he hit a main road. He gave the address as he climbed into the car it to avoid the cold winds outside. He was glad some interesting work had showed up.

He thought about the case. A man living alone in a curious house to the west of London, collecting books happily for a great number of years before suddenly, for no reason at all, his head gets smashed in within a locked room. What did book-collectors own? Books, obviously. But they weren't dealing with a paper-cut situation. It can't have been murder. A man dealing in this sort of trade wouldn't create any enemies – least of all any enemies that could sneak in and out of a house without leaving a single trace of evidence.

The weapon, Sherlock thought, what could be the weapon... What, moreover, could cause such a huge amount of damage before disappearing without a trace? Something heavy must have struck the man. Books were heavy, but no single book was heavy enough to kill with a single blow to the head. Where would the book be, anyway? It can't have scuttled off into some unseen corner. Sherlock thought again about what evidence they had. Three books and a single key in hand...

Quite suddenly, he understood. Thrilled by solving the case so soon, he told the cabdriver to pull over. He took out his phone, calling Lestrade.

"Everything alright?" Lestrade asked as he picked up the call.

"I've solved it!" Sherlock told him. "We're looking for a weapon that could have crushed this man's head before concealing itself completely."

"Yeah, so? What did it?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock asked him happily. "All the evidence lies in the key he was holding. He's a book-keeper, but he wouldn't have run away from anyone trying to hide three books – there would be rarer books, lots of them, all hidden in the same place. What we're looking for is his hiding place. The hiding place, moreover, that he left a moment before he was murdered."

"I don't understand," Lestrade told him bluntly.

"It's all a cliché," Sherlock explained. "What sort of hiding place would a book-fanatic have but a room hidden behind a bookshelf? The bookshelf is what killed him. It swung back and hit his head the moment he stepped close to it. He was carrying books at the time, he wouldn't have had time to block the blow, especially as the three very rare books were too precious to drop!"

"So the door..?"

"It swung back to its usual position after hitting him, hiding all the evidence. It would be a heavy door, likely put together on oiled metal hinges, with several shelves for books on one side."

"It's Brilliant!" Lestrade commented. "I'll have the boys take a look at the door just now, alright?"

"Text me when you've proven I'm right."

Sherlock hung up, smiling to himself. He let the satisfaction of this solved case wash over him for a few seconds, until a horrid idea interrupted him. If John still worked with him, he would have called this case something along the lines of "The Case of the Locked Room", he was sure. Sherlock would have thought of a much better name, a cleverer one, but it would be too late by then: the post would be up on John's blog. He would refrain from criticising him, with effort. Those days were gone, now. He wondered what John would have thought about his deductions...

This had been an easy case, too easy. He now had nothing to do today, no mystery to solve. For a few minutes he did nothing but sit there, thinking.

"You wanna go someplace else, or is this it?" the cabdriver asked.

"Oh yes, the middle of a traffic junction in Greenwich is precisely where I want to be," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Right, that'll be just under–"

"That was a joke."

The cabdriver blinked. "Oh..."

Sherlock took out his phone. He decided he wasn't going to spend today alone.

"You can charge me for this," he said. "I just need to send a quick message..."

_Fancy a coffee? If you're free, that is. _–SH

The cabdriver turned up the radio. Sherlock ignored the noise, thinking about whether John would respond. There was a heavy dose of cruelty attached to his claim "_if you're free_", which he half-hoped John would overlook. Saturday morning likely wasn't a free day at all, from what Sherlock could gather from Mary's character.

Before he knew it, John texted him back.

_Sure. Where?_ –JW

Sherlock wrote back to him, giving the address of a café close enough to John to not be a bother. When he arrived at the place, paying he cabdriver, John hadn't yet arrived. He went inside the café and took a seat at an empty table. When ten minutes passed, he was beginning to wonder if John would show up at all. When he finally did, Sherlock focused a lot on the way he acted. It was different than how he used to be. Even the way he dressed was different. It was strange.

They ordered two coffees. It was difficult to know where to begin talking. John did not ask Sherlock where he had been. Either he didn't care or he was too angry to ask. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.

"So," Sherlock said calmly, "you're married now."

"Yes. Mary and I had our wedding a year ago."

"When did you meet?" Sherlock asked, stirring his coffee without a glance towards it.

John didn't answer at once. He was glancing around the room, his lips pressed together. "Can we not do this, Sherlock?"

"Do what?"

"All of this," he said, "talking about my marriage and – and Mary..."

Sherlock was confused. He was tempted to ask John if he had something to hide. He resisted the temptation. "We're welcome to talk about my life, if you would prefer."

"No," John said simply.

Sherlock stared at him.

"I'm not interested in having a conversation about these last three years, Sherlock."

"Then why are you here?"

"You suggested I come here."

Sherlock studied him over his cup of coffee. John rubbed his face with a free hand after a moment, perhaps just to avoid Sherlock's gaze.

"You have an expensive house," Sherlock commented.

"Well spotted..."

Sherlock wanted to ask about Mary's wealth. She was an only child, he was sure, pampered by her business-driven parents. What did they work as? It was irrelevant, he supposed. But was John happy living a life dedicated solely to Mary's business? John still worked as a doctor, there was no doubt about that, but he didn't need to work. Did he do it because he was uncomfortable with her wealth?

"When did you move in?"

"After the wedding."

"I assume you moved out of Baker Street not long after my suicide?"

"Don't – don't call it that."

"Why not? It's what it was, isn't it?"

John seemed eager to change the subject. "If you must know, I stayed in Baker Street for a while after – after that happened."

Sherlock was surprised. He didn't know what to make of this.

"I don't suppose you've moved back there?" John asked.

"No. No, of course not."

He nodded. He sipped his coffee, perhaps impatiently. A thought occurred to Sherlock.

"What happened to all my things?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"All of my possessions, from Baker Street. Are they in storage somewhere?"

"They were, for a while," John told him.

"What happened?"

"They stayed there for a over year. I kept everything before that, but I couldn't keep everything around forever."

"So, you give it all up on the third year?" Sherlock asked. This annoyed him a little.

"Yes."

"Sold, I presume?"

"Yes."

Sherlock took a deep swig of coffee. He didn't want to get angry and ruin this small meeting, so he took a moment to calm himself. "Now I rather wish that I had taken further precautions to protect my belongings before Moriarty got to me."

John smiled weakly at this.

"Though it does surprise me, truly, that Mrs Hudson let it all go."

John's eyes snapped up at this.

"The experiments and body parts, those were fine to go," Sherlock carried on, "but my violin, my books? No. Those were important."

John's mouth was slightly open. A sad, serious look crossed his face. "Don't – don't you know?"

"Know what?"

John blinked a few times, sitting up straighter. "Sherlock... Mrs Hudson is dead. She died a few months ago. I thought they told you."

"Oh..."

A heavy silence fell between them. Sherlock's heart was suddenly beating faster. He didn't know what he was supposed to say.

"No, they... they didn't tell me."

Is this why John was depressed? He was avoiding Sherlock's eyes again. Coughing slightly, he looked at his watch.

"I have to go," he said.

Sherlock was taken aback. "We haven't been here twenty minutes yet!"

"Mary needs me back at the house by ten O'clock, I don't want to be late."

Taking his last sip of coffee, John stood up.

"Wait," Sherlock asked. "John, I'm..."

He was waiting. Sherlock didn't know how to say he was sorry.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I'm – I'm fine with the fact that you sold everything."

This annoyed John. "Brilliant," he said coldly. "Can I go?"

"If you want..."

John turned away, not saying another word. Sherlock watched him go, confused by what had happened. Confused, also, by the clear depression John showed...

Sherlock stayed away from his house for the next few hours. When he returned home, the sun was beginning to set and he was met by a surprise. The house appeared normal when he entered it, but there, sitting calmly in his front room, was Irene Adler.

"Irene," he said slowly, "what a surprise."

"Sherlock," she greeted, not looking up from her phone.

"How did you get in here?"

"The kitchen window was unlocked," she said simply. "I didn't see the point in waiting outside, especially when, as you know, the entire British Government is still searching for me."

Sherlock stepped further into the room, removing his coat and scarf. When he took a seat, Irene put down her phone to focus on him.

"I hope I'm not interrupting on anything important," she said idly, "but since I will be back in England for the next few months, taking care of unfinished business, I felt I may as well come see you again."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, still thinking too much about John. "If I were you, however, I wouldn't visit this house too often. Police officers visit daily."

"This is a temporary home, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said. "This place is awful."

Sherlock laughed for the first time, his eyes scanning the horrid shades of cream and greying white.

"You're alright though, being alone here?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem distracted."

He wished for the first time that she'd continue busying herself with business via her phone. "It's been a busy day," he said. "I've started working with Lestrade again. The cases detract me."

"How's John?" Irene asked. "Is he working with you?"

She was too quick with these things.

"He's getting on well," Sherlock forced himself to say, "but no, he no loner works with me. He has a wife now, a good home..."

Irene was watching him closely. She could see right though him, he knew.

"I'm surprised he hasn't moved back in with you already," she said.

"No, he -"

Sherlock stopped. No, he wasn't ready for this conversation. Irene was watching him too closely.

"He – he reacted oddly to my return," Sherlock explained, in what he hoped was a normal, casual tone. "I take it he's much too busy living his own life to want to make any changes to it now."

Irene nodded slowly, clearly trying to work this all out. Trying, moreover, to make sense of Sherlock's strange behaviour.

"That isn't quite normal of him," she commented. "To avoid you."

Sherlock said nothing. He had been thinking the same thing, but he had no desire to start a discussion with Irene about the possibility of John being different, being depressed. Sherlock had to work it out first. Irene, perhaps sensing this, suddenly stood up.

"I should go," she said. "I just wanted to say a quick hello. I may see you around, if our paths cross."

Sherlock nodded shortly. "Then I'll see you around."

She smiled softly, pocketing her phone and exiting the house. Whether she knew it or not, she had sent Sherlock into a state of wondering why John wasn't acting normally. Sherlock remained seated where he was, thinking. It was as if John's normal emotions had been suddenly eradicated. Despite everything they've been through, despite their old friendship... He had given up working for the Police or the Government, or anything of the sort.

John had made himself an ordinary life after Sherlock's fake suicide. An ordinary life was a boring life. Boring meant bored, and boredom lead to depression. Was that the answer to all of this? Sherlock wasn't so sure. There had to be something more, something to explain why their friendship was completely gone. It had been the strongest motivation that kept Sherlock going, it's why he had died – almost died – to protect John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade... So why did none of that friendship remain for John?

John was depressed. So what did this mean? His emotions were dulled, his reactions were slowed. Sherlock almost felt as if this could explain John's behaviour, but one thing didn't fit. No amount of depression could force someone to have absolutely no reaction when meeting a 'dead' friend again. Even though Lestrade warned John, clearly, about Sherlock's arrival, there was no way John could eradicate every emotion in him before answering that door. It wasn't possible, it wasn't normal...

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his temples, thinking hard. Anyone with eyes or ears could see that John was depressed. It explained the odd reaction Lestrade had had when Sherlock asked for John's address. So people knew. So John was seeking some sort of help. Help meant therapy, but no therapist could calm John down to a point where he felt no emotion. Unless it wasn't a therapist's words that changed John's mind. Unless –

"It must be the result of wrong drugs!" Sherlock exclaimed. He jumped up, out of his seat. "It isn't as if Mary would realise he's turned into a robot, it isn't as if –"

He stopped. He was talking to an empty room. Something about being in England or being in a new house again tricked Sherlock into believing someone might be around to listen. Mrs Hudson, perhaps, or John himself... but they were both gone. Sherlock had been alone for three solid years. Why would he now forget he was in solitude?

"No..."

The place was too quiet. Sherlock spent a long time after this staring into space, wondering how he should go about finding information on what prescription drugs John was taking. He thought of going to a hospital and getting the information, but not only was that a serious crime, he didn't know anyone who worked in the field of medicine besides Molly. She would be no use. John too, of course, but Sherlock couldn't exactly ask him about it. John might even be writing his own prescriptions by now, Sherlock had no idea. The only solution after this was to find a way into John's house, to look at what drugs he had...

Sherlock let the idea ripen in his mind, trying hard to focus on other work. Lestrade had another job for him the next morning. A young man, this time, had been found dead on a cold meadow in northern England. His left shoulder and ribcage had been crushed. What baffled the Police about all of this was that the victim was nowhere near any item that could have inflicted such damage. He was also holding a gun. He had shot his own face off.

"We can't figure out if it's a murder or a suicide," Lestrade told Sherlock as they approached the crime scene. "Which is why we need you, of course."

"That would certainly be a dramatic way to commit suicide," Sherlock commented. "Going out into the middle of nowhere and crushing your own shoulder and ribcage without leaving any evidence, later blowing off your own face... No, that doesn't fit at all."

"It was murder, then, and not suicide?"

"I'm starting to think it was a mix of both."

Lestrade stared at him, bewildered.

"Come on," Sherlock said impatiently, "look at what remains of his expression!"

Lestrade didn't seem to want to, in honesty.

"He was clearly in a lot of pain and anguish when he pulled the trigger. It was a test. Two men, at the very least, drove this man out into the middle on nowhere to test his willpower. They crushed his shoulder and ribcage – likely with the wheels of a car – and left him with a single weapon. A gun. With one bullet. They would have pointed two guns at least at him, giving him the option to wait in agony for help or to blow is own head off to greet death on his own."

Lestrade hadn't looked so disturbed in a long while. "Who would do all that?"

"Someone with a grudge," Sherlock said. "Someone who knew this man well. No one would be able to recognise his face now, what with his eye hanging out, and... well, you can see for yourself. My point is, this is clearly the work of a few disturbed individuals. Young individuals. Perhaps a few teenagers. Our victim must have been a part of a dangerously psychotic group."

"Right," Lestrange said vaguely. "Well, that's not much mystery, I guess."

"No," Sherlock agreed, taking out his phone. "The fact he shot his own shoulder proves he was just as eager –"

"Shot his own shoulder?" Lestrade repeated. "You mean head."

Sherlock paused for a second. He didn't know how he had mixed up the two. He turned back to his phone, frowning. "Yes, of course..."

"Are you alright?" Lestrade then asked. He was looking at Sherlock closely, giving him the same concerned gaze he had always worn in the years of getting Sherlock back on his feet.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said.

Lestrade didn't believe it. "Did you end up going to see John?"

"Yes. Twice."

"And how'd that go?"

Sherlock straightened up, lowering his phone. "How I expected it to..."

Other police officers worked around Lestrade, carrying out his orders, but he never broke his gaze from Sherlock. "John had a rough time, dealing with losing you."

Sherlock was surprised. "Did he?"

"I've never seen him so down before. Well, not that I knew him much back then, but to this day he's never been so depressed."

"But he is depressed, isn't he?" Sherlock asked. "He isn't happy with his life – with his mediocre job and wife and –"

Lestrade looked at him seriously. "It's the best he could have done, dealing with all that."

His tone was harsh, annoyed. Sherlock didn't know what he could say. He didn't understand how it could be the best John could do if he was still depressed. Unless, of course, his depression was the result of incorrect medication, or something of the sort...

Lestrade turned away. "Anyway, I better get on with this, then..."

Sherlock let him go, turning back to his phone. He had been thinking about John too much today. An idea had occurred to him when he thought about how he'd spend the rest of the day. This crime was solved, so he had lost all interest. His only interest left was finding out what drugs John was taking and how they'd affect him... He decided to text Irene Adler.

_I need to ask you a favour. Where can I meet you?_ –SH

Leaving Lestrade, Sherlock headed away from the crime scene. By the time he caught a cab back to London, Irene texted him back.

_I'll be at yours. –_IA

She kept her word, which wasn't really surprising after a two hour drive back to his house. She was waiting in the front room, in the same chair as before. She was writing on her phone, yet again.

"I'm surprised you stayed here waiting for so long," Sherlock commented, removing his scarf. His coat was already up in the hallway.

"I'm still on the run," she reminded him. "Surely you haven't forgotten what that's like? It doesn't matter where I am, as long as I'm not in danger and as long as I have access to my contacts."

He took the only other armchair in the room, turning to face her. She was already watching him.

"You said you needed a favour?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, trying to get his thoughts together. "I need you to steal something for me."

"Why me?" she asked.

"I know you're more than capable of slipping in and out of peoples' houses without detection. I would ask someone else, but few would be as good, and few would be willing to help me any time soon."

She thought this over for a few seconds. "If you're looking for someone to go steal all your old stuff back, there are better thieves for that. Thieves with time to waste."

Sherlock smiled, genuinely amused by this. "No, that I can sort out on my own. What I'm asking you to steal is a single item. A bottle of pills. I need to see if the drugs are clean or if they've been altered in some way."

Within a few seconds, Irene understood. "You think John is being drugged?"

There was no point in lying. "Yes," he admitted shortly.

"Why?" she asked, bewildered.

He wished she hadn't asked. He gave her a simplistic answer. "The way he's acting is strange. I want to make sure someone isn't messing up his medication."

"How do you know he's taking anything?"

"He's depressed," Sherlock said plainly. "Depressed people are drugged at one time or another. Especially after a situation like his."

"So you want me to investigate what he's taking?"

"Yes. Take one or two of the pills from any suspicious subscriptions. If we find out they're wrong, I'll either talk to John about it face to face or replace his pills with placebos later instead, to test my theory."

She thought it over. "That should be simple enough... I can scope out the house and get you those pills by morning."

"Thank you."

She kept her word again. It was by midnight when she arrived back at Sherlock's house, carrying a little glass bottle with two pills inside.

"What drugs is John taking?" Sherlock asked.

"Not many. A few normal painkillers and one prescription of anti-depressants. I only took the latter."

She explained what brand of anti-depressants he was taking, even showing Sherlock a picture she took with her phone. Sherlock set off to work immediately, first examining the pills to make sure they hadn't been swapped by someone else. They were normal. He began researching the side-affects of the drugs, reading through pages and pages of reports and reviews, studies and papers and essays – anything that could give him an answer why John had changed.

But the answer never came to him. There were bad side-affects of the drugs, of course, but none of them described affects Sherlock expected to see. He was not a doctor, he was far from it, but anyone could find out every symptom of a drug if they looked hard enough. By four O'clock in the morning, Sherlock was forced to give up.

"It isn't the pills," he told Irene. He wasn't quite sure why she had stayed here for so long. "It must be something else..."

Irene was quiet for a time. Sherlock knew she was going to suggest something bad even before she spoke.

"People change, you know," she said. "Sometimes it's the only way they can deal."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked her in a low voice. His eyes were closed, the tips of his fingers brought together above his mouth as if in prayer.

"I suppose he's like this because he got hurt," she mused. "More hurt than anyone was able to cure. He found a solution he'd never need to reserve; he gave up feeling those emotions. He gave up on you – not because he didn't trust you, nor because he didn't love you as a friend. It just hurt too much. He just," she waved her hand at the words, thinking, frowning, "saved what little normality he had left."

"Get out..."

"What?"

"Get out!" Sherlock shouted at her. He sat up, turning to face her. He was too enraged to put into words, all he could do was glare.

She was frozen for a few seconds, her lips slightly parted. Then, perhaps realising she went too far, she stood up.

"It's alright," she told him, staring. "I'll leave you to it..."

She slipped out of the house, closing the door softly. Sherlock turned back to his desk, running his hand through his hair, clutching his skull in stress. It was too much to take. He couldn't willingly believe that John was normal the way he was. He thought of every single possibility to explain what had happened to him. He thought of every other interference that might be put on his brain. Even as hours passed, however, Sherlock came up with no answers.

Sherlock did not sleep that night. He got as far as the bedroom, but his restlessness was too great for him to even begin calming down. John had given up on him... John had move on with his life, getting rid of every emotion he had ever felt for Sherlock, because after his suicide, no good emotions remained. They were smothered and strangled by John's sorrow. They were killing him, killing their friendship... The sun was beginning to rise over England. When eight O'clock crept forwards and still Sherlock couldn't calm himself down, he decided to go out.

He didn't know what convinced him to go back to central London, to the place he and John used to live, but by the time nine O'clock arrived, Sherlock was standing on Baker Street. 221B looked eerily like it always had. At quarter past nine, Sherlock found out who now owned his beloved flat. A young couple, talking closely. There was a woman with reddish-brown hair and a man Sherlock only saw from the back. He had dark black hair and a horrid scar on his cheek. Sherlock watched them head down the street. He wondered, idly, what they had done with his home.

At nine-thirty, Sherlock received a text. It was from Lestrade.

_New case just showed up. If you're up for it, we could use some extra help._ –GL

Sherlock read the address written at the end of the text. He wrote back immediately.

_I'll be there in five minutes._ –SH

Lestrade was visibly surprised when Sherlock showed up at the crime scene so quickly. Sherlock could have grabbed a coffee on his way, to waste time at the very least, but he had no interest in doing that. He wasn't tired. He wanted the thrill of a crime to settle his nerves.

"What do we have?" Sherlock asked the moment Lestrade approached him.

"Hang on a minute," Lestrange said, "first tell me how you got here so quick."

"It's what I do, isn't it? Show up at crime scenes."

"Not this early, you don't. And not when you don't know what the case is yet."

Sherlock ignored this, examining the two dead people before him. A man and a woman, neither of whom could have been older than twenty-five. There were two bullets in their chests, right over their hearts. "They must have been lovers."

"Are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?"

"Never mind that!" Sherlock said irritably. "We have two dead people sitting right in front of us and you're asking me whether or not I'm wearing the same clothes as yesterday? Tell me, do you even care about your job?"

"You haven't even slept since yesterday, have you?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock, listen to me –"

But Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Sherlock listened closely, straightening up. He could hear a violin being played. For the faintest few seconds he feared he was imagining it, until one or two of the policemen standing near the door turned their heads. The music was getting closer. Sherlock, ignoring the two dead bodies, moved across the room with careful steps. He knows that violin. It was _his_ violin. Moreover, he knows that flawed, clumsy, careless style of playing he'd been taunted by for years on end.

The music was close now and in seconds, the man playing Sherlock's violin stepped through the door. It was Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had a patronizing, satisfied smile on his face as he watched Sherlock, getting ever-closer. He's playing Schubert. Trio op. 100 - Andante con moto. Sherlock stared at his brother with a furious expression. When Mycroft finally stopped, he grinned further.

"Ah, dear brother, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!"

Sherlock didn't bother with the introduction. "That's my violin! Where did you get it?"

"A gift," Mycroft told him. "From Doctor Watson. It was a special request I placed when I heard he would begin selling all of your worldly possessions. One amongst a few..."

"Well, since I'm not dead," Sherlock began through gritted teeth, "I must kindly ask that you give it back to me."

Mycroft eyed his outstretched hand for a moment, raising his eyebrows. "I don't believe that would be necessary, seeing as this violin was given to me as a gift."

Sherlock didn't have the patience for this. "Oh, come on, Mycroft, you're embarrassing yourself with all this!"

"I'm embarrassing myself?" Mycroft repeated. He laughed. "Why, I'm not the one who should be embarrassed at all here, my dear brother. You see, I have already solved this case for you. This was a murder posed as a joint suicide – you can see by a stain of wine by this poor girl's hand."

He pointed the violin's bow lazily at the stained carpet.

"Coincidence, you suggest? No, sadly not. This girl has been poisoned – tests will show this to be true. These gunshots were added after the two lovers died. No one would bother to hold a drink in hand whilst holding a handgun in the other, prepared to slip away from this life. The boy must have had a poisoned drink too, but I assume the murderer didn't let that one slip to the floor. It was a crime for love, clearly. A woman, I assume, is behind it... Did you get none of that, dear brother?"

Sherlock could have punched him, but he resisted the urge. "Oh yes, Mycroft, I had time to figure it out... sadly, however, it was wasted on you making a show of your – questionable – superiority."

Mycroft did nothing but grin childishly at Sherlock for longer, spite in his eyes.

"Alright you two, break it up," Lestrade said, exasperated. "It doesn't matter who figured it out, nor how quickly."

Sherlock tore his eyes from Mycroft, unable to keep the scathing tone out of his voice. "You're right, Lestrade. I'll just get going, onto more important things now..."

"Oh, yes, the bees will be waiting," Mycroft said slyly.

"As will the cake for you, I am sure."

For the first time, Mycroft's smile slipped away.

"Lestrade, do be sure to call me alone the next time you have a case," Sherlock said angrily as he turned to leave.

"I didn't ask him to come here," Lestrade said, "he –"

"I still have your skull, you know," Mycroft told Sherlock when he was at the door. "It makes a very nice paperweight on my desk."

"Will you two just cut it out already!"

Sherlock was too irritated by all of this to stay a moment longer. He left the house, storming outside to get the nearest cab.

He was infuriated that today he had been distracted wholly. With the unsolvable problem of John acting more strange, every other case seemed more difficult than ever. Sherlock's heart wasn't in any other problem. Even as days passed, as several other crime scenes were visited, Sherlock couldn't focus properly on a single one of them. Lestrade, amongst others, must have feared he lost his touch. It made him more paranoid than ever.

Three days after meeting Mycroft for the first time since arriving in England, Sherlock decided he wanted to meet up with John again. Irene's suggestion still haunting him and he wanted to know – he needed to know – whether or not she was right in saying John had changed.

_Are you free for coffee at mine?_ –SH

_Why yours? –_JW

_It's quieter, less distractions. I want to talk to you._ –SH

John did not reply to this quickly.

_It's urgent. –_SH

_Fine. Give me your address, I'll be there._ –JW

Sherlock was not looking forwards to this meeting. Since John no longer took any interest in hearing about his work or his life in America for the past three years, there weren't many things they had left to talk about. Except the one thing bothering Sherlock...

When John arrived he was tired, but not moody. He was apathetic. Sherlock watched him closely, trying to spot any signs that his brain had indeed been altered. He wasn't sure if emotional stress alone could do this to someone, sapping all life out of them. When John stepped through the front door, he looked around slowly.

"This is where you're living, now?"

"It's a temporary home," Sherlock explained.

"Oh, right. Yeah, it doesn't seem like somewhere you'd live."

Sherlock didn't think about this comment twice. He led John into his front room, where he had coffee already set up. The two of them sat down. Sherlock made their drinks in silence. Painful silence.

"Thank you," John said when he was done, taking the cup from his hands.

Sherlock sat back on his chair, watching John and paying no attention to his own cup of coffee.

"Are you angry with me?"

John lowered his cup, surprised. He coughed, having almost choked on his drink. "What?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"Why would I be ang-?"

"You've been avoiding me. I don't know why you're angry, but you must be."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously. "How have I been avoiding you? Every time you've asked me to go out, I've showed up, haven't I?"

"Yes, but you leave too early! You won't talk to me, you're avoiding me emotionally!"

"Sherlock –"

"Oh, don't deny it!" Sherlock pleaded furiously. "You haven't had a conversation with me for longer than a few minutes since I arrived here. The first time we met, you let Mary talk the whole time and barely said a word!"

"You're insane," John said scathingly.

"So you are angry with me!"

"I am now, yeah! Sherlock, you can't just bring me here and attack me with assumptions then expect me to not be annoyed!"

"Why are you acting like this?" Sherlock demanded.

"Like what?"

"Like this! All boring and – and uncaring!"

John continued to look as if he didn't believe a word he was hearing. "We've met twice since you got here, Sherlock."

"Yes, and not once did you show a moment of interest in the fact that I've returned! You don't care anymore, do you? You've given up on me, haven't you?"

John did not answer immediately. He seemed to be struggling to get his thoughts straight. As if to fill the silence before it carried on too long, or before Sherlock made another mad assumptions, John spoke.

"I have a life now, Sherlock. A different life."

This was a confirmation to Sherlock. Irene was right. John had changed. He'd given up.

"What have I done?" Sherlock asked him in a low voice.

John laughed at this. He was angry. "You're asking me what you've done? Sherlock..."

"No, tell me, honestly! John, tell me what I've done wrong!"

"I'm leaving."

"What? No! Don't go – you can't just go when none of this is sorted!"

He was already standing up, grabbing his coat. It was a brown coat, terribly designed. Sherlock watched him as if from a long way away. He didn't know what he could do. He stood up too.

"Call me if you want to have a normal conversation," John said coldly, "but if it's just more of this, I'm not interested. Have a great life."

Sherlock couldn't find a word to respond with. In seconds, John walked out the door, slamming it on his way. The house was two quiet. Sherlock was left with two full cups of coffee, alone.

The next few days were too much for him to take. He couldn't deal with things they way they were. He had no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to get inspired from, no one to talk to. He had been thrown completely off-balance. He couldn't focus his mind on any work Lestrade gave him, nor any research he did in his own time, alone. He had been stuck for too long in this horrid house with its horrid, sharp lighting. It was driving him insane.

He went through violent surges of anger, wanting to smash everything around him or take something for the pain or hurt himself in some way. It didn't matter which it was. Except none of these options were good enough. He couldn't deal with the frustration that was building up inside him. He decided one night, at four O'clock one morning, to call Lestrade. If he could just talk to someone, just get some reassurance that things were alright, he'd be fine for the night...

The phone rang for about a solid minute, before Lestrade picked up, mumbling tiredly, "Hello?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said. He paused after this.

"Yeah, it's me," Lestrade mumbled. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock's heart was pounding. He was sitting alone in his front room, on the uncomfortable armchair. He closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"I need to talk..."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing," he said, "nothing has happened..."

Lestrade didn't believe it, probably, but he was tired. Sherlock heard him breathing on the other end of the phone. It was calming to hear someone else's voice, but Lestrade's next words ruined all of this.

"It's late," he said. "Can't we talk about this tomorrow?"

Sherlock held his breath. His heart sank. 'Let's talk about this tomorrow' really meant 'this is irrelevant, so forget about it and stop bothering me'. Sherlock didn't blame Lestrade for being tired – he worked long days every day, doing a lot of boring, useless tasks most of the time – but this didn't stop Sherlock from wishing desperately that Lestrade would listen to him now.

Sherlock knew he was wasting time, however. He decided to let Lestrade sleep, to try dealing with all of this on his own instead. Closing his eyes tightly, he said, "That'd be fine. I'm sorry for waking you."

"Tomorrow," Lestrade mumbled. "We'll talk about it."

He hung up.

For more than a few seconds, Sherlock did nothing more than stare into space. He lowered the phone numbly. He felt guilty, suddenly, for not getting the truth. He needed very badly to talk to someone. He understood that he couldn't deal with the pain surging through him now. For the first time, he was happy that Lestrade would undoubtedly forget to mention this phonecall tomorrow. Since Sherlock couldn't talk to anyone – not even to his skull – since he could not smash up this house or hurt himself willingly in the next few hour, there was only one option left.

He stood up. Blindly, slowly, he made his way out the room, grabbing his keys and scarf on the way. Only one thing could stop his problems. Only one thing he was willing to do, at least. Sherlock put on hos coat. He headed out into the night, walking to the nearest corner store. He bought a pack of cigarettes. These were just to calm him down a little more, to pass the next hour more quickly as he went off to find a better substance. A stronger one...

The night was a dark blur. All Sherlock could remember was stumbling back to his house, horrid anticipation building within him, causing his hands to shake even before he turned the key and stepped inside. He reflected, on his way up to his bedroom, that he and John had once had a healing relationship. But that was not now. John had chosen to live a normal life, and Sherlock... Sherlock had gone back to how he once was. Back to drugs. It was as if he was erasing the last four or five years, to a time before he met John...

For the next few days, Sherlock avoided Lestrade's offers to go look at cases. He worked at home instead, solving problems with ease and with great satisfaction. Lestrade was pleased about it. Although he was too busy to drive to Sherlock to talk to him about it face to face, he spoke to him on the phone once or twice to congratulate him on his recent success. It was always during the early evening. During the only time of day Sherlock was lucid enough to talk. By nightfall, he would turn back to his hidden solutions. He was comforted all through the darkening of this side of earth by the substances he had been told to give up so many times before...

Things were working out smoothly, perfectly, until a week or two passed. Sherlock had lost track of the passing of days. It was around nine O'clock in the evening when he made his way upstairs to take his drugs as usual. He was just beginning to relax, to appreciate the glory of it all, when he heard a faint sound carry up the stairs. If he had been moving, he would have missed it, because the sound was faint and quick. A window was sliding open – the kitchen window. Irene Adler had entered his house once again.

Sherlock panicked. He stood up immediately, rummaging around his cupboard to make space for the case he wanted to hide. Irene's voice called his name softly downstairs. Sherlock didn't want her to come upstairs at all. He headed down instead, where she was waiting in the hallway.

"Sherlock," she greeted, smiling. "I thought I might stop by to –"

She stopped. She had caught sight of Sherlock heading downstairs hurriedly, his hands shaking. In seconds, she understood.

"You're high..."

Sherlock could barely stand straight, but he tried nonetheless. Irene never looked away. She wasn't startled, but she was concerned nonetheless. Sherlock made his way past her, towards the living room. He had no idea what he was doing.

"Would you like a seat?" he asked, pointing to one of them.

"You can't pretend to me that you aren't on drugs, Sherlock," she said. She took the seat he offered. "We've known each other for years, now. If you think I can't spot an addict's relapse, I'm afraid I've told you more than a few stories you never listened to a single word of."

"Yes, well... well..."

"Sit down."

After a slight hesitation, Sherlock did as she suggested. His hands were shaking badly. His emotions were vacillating between extreme fear and extreme enjoyment and humour at the idea that he'd been caught. He tried hard to ignore the latter feelings.

"Does Lestrade know?" Irene asked.

"No," Sherlock said. Then he was surprised, confused. "No, of course he doesn't know! I wouldn't be here if he did. I wouldn't – wouldn't..."

Sherlock became lost in thought. A lot of his thoughts seemed to run away from him completely, taunting him, annoying him, or amusing him. It depended which thought it was. It depended on where they went, and when. Sherlock brought his hands to his head, to his forehead. Over his ears. He concentrated hard.

"I need you to steal something else for me," he mumbled.

"What do you need?"

It took him a moment to think about it, but he remembered. "My – my violin. Violent... I need it back. My brother's been using it to show off, lately. I need it back. And the skull, too."

"What skull?"

"My skull..."

She was silent for a moment, before she remembered. "The skull you used to own in Baker Street?"

"Yes! Yes... Yes, that one."

"I told you I can't get your old possessions back. I'm not that good a thief."

"I need them..."

"So you said."

Sherlock couldn't get a single thought straight. He may have taken a stronger dose than he first intended. His head was aching, then spinning.

"What is more, I can't rob your brother."

"Why – why not?"

"He's Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock. You want me to attempt stealing from his house, when he's the one man in England I'm trying my hardest to avoid? Stealing from John was reasonable, it's a simple job and I know you really needed it to be a secret. If you want to steal from Mycroft, however, you would need the best thieves London could possibly supply. You'd be better of talking to him, if you want your skull and violin back."

She was right, Sherlock told himself. Though he couldn't remember why, for long.

"I can't see him like this," he managed.

"You can't see anyone like this, if you want to avoid a panic."

Sherlock looked at her closely. She was a blur. He wished she wouldn't stare at him, even if her gaze was casual and uncaring. He was sweating, breathing heavily. "Then why aren't you panicked – panicking – pan..."

"It's none of my business if you choose to go back to drugs or not," she said.

"So – so you don't care?"

"Oh, no, I do care. But I can't make your decisions for you. I won't judge you for needing them."

"I – I do need them. I need them..."

"You know that drugs aren't going to make things better. Drugs won't change John back... Well," she smiled for the first time, "not for long, anyway."

Sherlock laughed. He rubbed his face with his hands, breathing heavily.

"I can't cure your problems for you", she said, "but I can tell you this; it's your choice to decide whether or not this is how you want to live your life. It is always a choice, and there's no shame in whatever you choose. I've seen countless people dedicate their lives solely to one substance or another. The only difference here is, you're not an ordinary person."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. "What – what do you mean 'not an ordinary person'?"

"Most people are average. Most people aren't like you, Sherlock. To waste that mind of yours... well, it would be doing the world a great injustice."

Sherlock tried to make sense of this. "I'm – I'm the same as anyone. I'm... tired..."

He had lost his trail of thought again. Irene seemed to take this as a sign that she had to help him. Standing up, she moved closer to take his wrist in her hand. Convincing him with a few plain words, Sherlock ended up following her upstairs, nearly falling again and again as the walls span around him. Before he knew it, he was in bed. Irene said a few more things he was deaf to. He closed his eyes for just a few seconds. When he opened them, she was gone.

He wished she wasn't gone. He was too tired and too confused to do anything, but he wished he wasn't alone. When he woke up the next day, past midday, he realised Irene had slept downstairs. She greeted him normally when they were both awake. She made him breakfast, acting as if none of last night was anything to make a huge drama out of. Sherlock appreciated her calmness, but he didn't know what to say about it. She gave him something no other friend had given him before: the option to be however he chose to be. He realised, soon, that this was what he needed most of all.

But things weren't good for long. Irene only stayed for one night at Sherlock's house and although this was all he really needed, his own mind became a problem. Sherlock carried on working for Lestrade every few days, never seeing him. Sherlock was completely alone. He continued to take his drugs, though he took less than before, until a particularly bad night. This mistake made his mind think too madly, his paranoia building.

He thought excessively about Irene as well as John now. He thought about how John had to be drugged. He realised, with an overwhelming sense of horror, that he wasn't even sure Irene could be trusted. How did he know she had really broken into John's home? She could have betrayed him. She had been a spy before, so why not now? Drugs helped Sherlock to think, so maybe now, he thought, he could work it out. He was on his bedroom floor, his hands over his face, murmuring to himself.

John had to be drugged – but by who? Not by his normal pills. What if someone had swapped his normal pills? Someone who wanted to hurt Sherlock. Who was his enemy now? Inexplicably, Sherlock thought back to 221B. In a moment of pained horror, he remembered something. He stared into space, a cold sweat washing over him. Two people had walked out of his old apartment – a woman with reddish-brown hair and the man with dark hair and a scar on his cheek. Sherlock had never seen the man's face. He realised now that that scar wasn't normal. That scar was from –

"M- Moriarty!" he exclaimed in the darkness. His heart was suddenly pounding. He stood up in shock and fear, as if he expected the dead man to walk through his bedroom door at any moment. Sherlock knew he was right. He stumbled back onto his feet. That scar could easily have been from a gunshot wound. He didn't see Moriarty's face properly when he shot himself. He could have never killed himself at all. It could have been a trick, it could have all been faked.

Trembling more than he thought possible, Sherlock made his way to his cupboard. There, hidden under layers of clothes, was a gun.

"It's very like Moriarty to take my old apartment, very like him," Sherlock mumbled to himself. He put the gun in his pocket. He was barely able to stand, but he tried. "I have – have to find him..."

Sherlock stumbled downstairs. He grabbed his coat, threw it on, and headed out the door. He could keep his balance better now. He called for a cab. It was only twelve O'clock. He told the cab driver to head for Baker Street. When the driver asked if he was alright, Sherlock ignored him. He needed to get this done...

Outside on Baker Street, when the cab drove away, everything seemed very still. Sherlock walked through the street, his eyes fixed determinedly on 221B. The lights were on inside. Moriarty was surely enjoying himself – enjoying the satisfaction of taking over Sherlock's home, Sherlock's life, pushing away all the people he cared about... Sherlock would not be surprised if he had killed Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock moved around to the back of the flat. This was how Irene Adler had broken entry into his and John's flat four years ago and even in his delirious state Sherlock knew how to get inside. He couldn't remember doing it, but in minutes he was climbing through the window of a bedroom that used to be his. The room was empty, but the door stood ajar. Sherlock made his way towards the slither of light, withdrawing his gun. Before hesitating, before allowing fear to get to him over anger, he burst through the door.

There was no one in the living room, but the lights were on. The place was almost unrecognisable. If it weren't for the same wallpaper, the same placement of doors and windows, Sherlock would have feared he was in the wrong place. He walked through the living room, turning around with a gun in hand and trying to work out why Moriarty had such a lack of taste. He was distracted by this thought until he heard a sound. He lifted up his gun immediately. A man was standing in the door.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock exclaimed. A cruel grin curled upon his face. "We meet again..."

Moriarty put his hands up slowly, staring at Sherlock with the same pitiless black eyes. With one of his hands, Moriarty held up a finger so silence Sherlock. "Shhh," he said quietly, "there's no need for the gun..."

Sherlock blinked many times. A few times Moriarty was closer. He needed to get his thoughts straight. He aimed his gun more steadily. "I know it was you, Moriarty. You drugged John. You did all of this just to torture me – just to _win_. But you haven't won. Not this time!"

"No," Moriarty said clearly, shaking his head. He was smiling. "No, you're mistaken."

Sherlock didn't understand.

"I'm not mistaken!" he said forcibly, his eyes fixed on Moriarty. It was hard to focus on him. He tried harder. "You changed the drugs. I thought it was prescription drugs gone wrong, but I always knew it was too much of a stretch. Something far more sinister was going on. Something darker, something surer."

"And how did I do it?" Moriarty asked, his head tilted madly to the side.

"You must have been doing it for a while. You – you were preparing for me to return to John. Yes! Irene was a part of it from the start, she must have been. She was a spy. When I – I handed her the pills to change, she cold have done anything with them. So she did."

"Very good," Moriarty commented. "Very good, Sherlock... Too bad this took you far too long to figure out."

"What?"

Moriarty's sharp teeth bared in a grin. All his eyes ever did was stare, as if dead, as if he had truly shot himself through the head like Sherlock first thought.

"It's too late for John, Sherlock," he said in a low, laughing voice.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Put the gun down, Sherlock. Then we'll talk."

"No! Tell me what you mean! What have you done to John?"

"I'm warning you, Sherlock."

"TELL ME!"

"Sherlock –"

BANG!

The shot missed as Moriarty ducked. Sherlock pointed the gun at him again.

BANG!

It missed again and Moriarty has dropped to the ground. Sherlock was going to kill him. He took a step forward, aiming his weapon with a look of rage, kicking Moriarty over to see his face.

But he stopped.

A cowering man lay before Sherlock, a man he did not recognise. He had a scar on his cheek, an old burn. His eyes and hair were dark, but they were nothing at all like Moriarty's. Sherlock's hatred turned to horror. His gun began shaking violently. He was backing up, moving away from this man as quickly as he could as if he suddenly owed the gun. Moriarty was not here. Moriarty had never been here. Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was drugged out of his mind.

He dropped the gun. He was mumbling frantically, shouting, unsure what on earth he was saying. He was searching his pockets for a phone. He called Lestrade, never once taking his eyes of the terrified stranger he had just tried to kill. The phone connected.

"Sherlock?"

"L-Les... Lest-strade... Les..."

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He was panicked for the first time. Sherlock didn't know how to deal with that.

"No," he said. "No... No, I – I'm not alright... I'm..."

"Tell me what's happened."

"I – I didn't mean to..."

"Sherlock?"

"I – I t-tried to kill him..."

For five painful seconds, Lestrade was silent. "Who?"

"It was Moriarty," Sherlock explained quickly, "I swear to you, it was him! But then – then he wasn't! L-Lestrade I need you to come here. Please – please... I need you here! Please..."

"Where are you?"

"Bake- Baker Street. 221B. Please..."

"I'll be right over. Just stay calm! Do you hear me?"

"Y-yes."

Lestrade hung up. Sherlock let the phone slip from his trembling hands when he did. He was crying now, terrified. The stranger he had just tried to shoot was standing up. Sherlock closed his eyes as the man headed out the door, down the stairs. This place felt so terrifying to him. The ceiling was too high up as he sat slumped on the floor. The furniture was strange and so different to how his had been. Sherlock was dreading Lestrade's arrival. He dreaded having to explain what had happened...

When Lestrade arrived, he was alone. There were no police officers waiting around, as their surely should have been after two shots were fired. The Police arrived later. Lestrade was left with the job of talking to Sherlock, getting him to stand up. Lestrade understood that he had gone back to drugs. He didn't make a big scene of it, but Sherlock knew the consequences of all of this wouldn't be good. Even as he was half-carried out of the house, he understood the situation enough to regret everything he had done...

The next week was rough. Lestrade had sent in a bunch of police officers to search Sherlock's home, even if Sherlock had told them openly where they'd find his only supply. Sherlock had to explain, after a few days of resting, why he had decided to turn back to drugs when he knew how dangerous it was. Sherlock told Lestrade honestly that he could no longer concentrate on his work without help. Lestrade wasn't pleased to hear it. He told Sherlock that if he couldn't get the work done now, he didn't have to work at all. They were ways around it, if he was too stressed.

Sherlock had been hospital-bound for two days. When he got out and went back to the house he hated, he tried hard to focus on what needed doing now. He realised, a few days on, that Irene was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't paid him a visit. She had, he realised, fled the moment she heard news that he had attempted to murder a man, mistaking him for Moriarty. It was smart of her to leave, even if Sherlock felt somewhat alone without her. He could have told Lestrade anything that night, under the influence of drugs, so she escaped England.

The time had finally come for Sherlock to find a new place to live. He had explained to Lestrade how he couldn't concentrate in the boring, ugly house he had been given. Lestrade suggested he go hunting for new places, but Sherlock kept declining the offers. He began to realise there was only one place he wanted to live. He explained to Lestrade that he wanted 221B back. After almost being murdered, the previous inhabitants felt a sudden deep desire to leave Baker Street.

"Are you sure you want to back here?" Lestrade asked. "It could hold a lot of bad memories, for you."

"I'm sure," Sherlock told him. "It's the place I had my most inspiration in. The place where I feel most at home."

Eventually, Lestrade agreed to the idea. When Sherlock moved back in, he was greeted by a surprise. Mycroft had given him back his violin and skull, likely out of pity for hearing his latest breakdown. Sherlock accepted both items wordlessly, lest Mycroft should change his mind. As time went on, Sherlock found a new hobby: searching all of London for the old possessions John had sold. It was all in the interest of Sherlock putting things back to how they once were and getting his concentration back. It was a good distraction – it was fun for him to deduce where his belongings might have ended up after a year of being cast away.

Sherlock liked living here again, but it made him miss John terribly. Even as the house began to fill with items once more, Sherlock couldn't replace the one man who had shown him how to be a true friend. He decided, one night, to discuss it with Lestrade. They spoke about John often and Lestrade understood more than anyone how Sherlock missed him.

"What can I do to bring him back?" Sherlock asked. "What can I do to help convince him things are fine now?"

"Well," Lestrade responded slowly, unsure, "All you can really do is go talk to him. Get him to open a bit, at least so you know what he's thinking about concerning all this. I can't guarantee he'll say much, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Sherlock decided to take his advice. The only thing stopping him, at first, was John's previous reluctance to talk about these last three years. With no interference of drugs on John and no conspiracy behind his actions, it scared Sherlock to think he was just the way he was. But he decided to set up a meeting nonetheless, to see how things would go.

Are you free for lunch? –SH

Where? –JW

Wherever you are, I don't mind. I just want to talk. –SH

Fine –JW

They met up in a park not far from John's home. Sherlock asked where he wanted to go for lunch, but after a few minutes of indecision, John dropped the idea, saying it was fine if they just talked. He knew Sherlock still didn't eat when he was distracted. He likely didn't want to talk for very long again, anyway.

"What did you want to talk about?" John asked him.

"I wanted to ask how you are."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

John looked at him seriously. It was a dull grey day and strong autumn winds were blowing through this empty park. John's face was grey and solemn. Even his hair seemed greyer, somehow.

"You're the one who broke into our old flat a few weeks ago waving a gun around and shooting at a man you thought was Moriarty. Are you sure you're alright, Sherlock?"

"I was mistaken about something," Sherlock explained. "I got... carried away."

John didn't ask why. He seemed to know where this conversation was going already and he wasn't happy about it. "And you wonder why I changed my life..."

Sherlock was taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John was shaking his head. "This is all you do. You have all these mad ideas and you act on them without telling anyone. I can't keep up with that, Sherlock. Not after what happened three years ago..."

"Is that what I did wrong?" Sherlock asked him. "I – I kept you waiting for too long, didn't I?"

John's lips were pressed together hard. He looked away. A shadow fell over his eyes, as it so often did these days.

"Why can't you tell me what I did wrong?"

Finally, John broke. He was mad again.

"You were dead, Sherlock!" he said furiously. "How can you honestly think everything will just go back to normal after all that?"

"Why should it be any different now?" Sherlock asked him. "I did this – all of this – for you, John! Can't you understand? For you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. So why – just tell me, please! Why can't you accept what had to happen? Why can't you just – just forgive me, please!"

"You left me, Sherlock," John reminded him. "Now you've got to accept that I left you."

Sherlock was stunned. He stared for a few paused moments. "But – but I didn't actually leave! I faked my death!"

"You were dead to me. For years, Sherlock, I didn't get a sign."

Sherlock stared a him, unable to say a word.

"I wouldn't be able to take it if that happened again," John said. "I can't risk going through that again, especially when – when –"

"When what?"

"When it could be real this time."

So that was it. Sherlock was silent, thinking. For the first time, he realised how much his suicide must have affected John. He wished terribly, suddenly, that John hadn't seen him dying. It had all been a part of making sure John was protected, making sure he wouldn't go looking for Sherlock. It must have been a horrific sight. John had to live with that memory for three solid years. Sherlock knew, in that moment, he should have left John a sign, a little glimmer of hope. Instead, John had lived in darkness, haunted again and again...

John coughed suddenly, straightening up. "Thank you, Sherlock, truly, for giving me reason to stop caring so much about your death. Now, please... please just let me get on with my life."

These words stung Sherlock deeply. None of this felt real, anymore. "What – what about mine?"

John smiled for the first time, amused by the painful irony. "Yours never stopped."

He turned away at this. He didn't look back, he didn't show any signs of the emotions he might have felt – if indeed there were any left. Despite everything they had been through, despite what Sherlock had to sacrifice to protect the people he cared about most of all, John had given up. It was to protect himself, to heal from the pain inflicted on him to avoid his death. He accepted his emotions for a greater cause. He was walking away instead. The Soldier, still marching on...

Sherlock knew he had stopped John's life for years. He realised, slowly, reluctantly, that John's reaction to the last three years might be the only sane response he could have had, as Lestrade suggested. Sherlock hated to think that John would be more depressed any other way. With a horrid sickening feeling, he realised that John was still living his life as though he had died. As Irene had said, John found a solution to his sorrow that couldn't be reversed...

Now John was leaving Sherlock. This wasn't in spite. It was the harsh truth, the only thing John could do to conserve his own happiness, his own life. If anything like this happened again, it would kill him. So how could Sherlock find a way to deal with his own loss? He knew he must, because his entire life was at a standstill. He didn't want to do what John did. He didn't want to become ordinary, to give up the emotions he felt towards a friendship that had been so real and so important to him.

He needed something, anything, to help him deal with the way John had changed. He needed a temporary solution, one he could change and go against if John decided to change back. Sherlock knew he had to wait for that day. He knew he had to try to remain strong for the sake of his own sanity, to ensure that he was ready to accept John back. If he indeed came back... Sherlock knew he might not. He knew that the cure he had in mind would help him through that too. He thought for a long time, crafting the solution...

The next few weeks became better for Sherlock. His cases were being solved normally, quickly, and Lestrade was pleased. Sherlock had his answer for why John had changed, so it was no longer a mystery bugging him. Without this distraction, he was doing well. He was calm and enjoyed his work.

"I'm well chuffed we've got this all sorted out!" Lestrade told him with a grin one night. He had stopped by Sherlock's house to give him the latest news on an important case they had spent three days working on. "Now we've got you you all cleared up again, I expect things will keep going smoothly like this."

Sherlock smiled shortly, falsely.

"I've gotta go now, but I'll text you in the morning to give you some idea of how the case is going."

"It will go just as expected, likely."

"Yeah, well, just so you know." Lestrade smiled. "You have a good night, Sherlock."

"You too."

He left. It was late in the evening, around eight O'clock. Sherlock planned to spent most of the day thinking and getting some extra work done. He made himself tea, setting out two cups on his living room table. He was expecting a guest. His heart was beating faster even as he thought about it. He made his way to his bedroom. In there, he moved towards his dresser, grabbing the lowest drawer and pulling it out. It slid towards him smoothly, despite being an old piece of furniture. Sherlock reached a hand out into the dresser's empty slot, looking through a hiding place he had made.

His fingertips brushed against the cold plastic of a small container. He took the container out, examining the pills once they were in his palm. Taking a single one, he popped it into his mouth, swallowing it without water. He put the pills back, then the drawer, standing up. Solemnity gripped him, even as the pill calmed him. He made his way back into the living room of 221B. The room was slowly but surely gaining back its old appearance, because Sherlock spent a lot of time hunting down items – old and new – that he truly cared about.

He took a seat in his favourite old chair and closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh tea. In a few short moments, the hallucinogenic would take affect. He smiled at the very idea, thinking about what he'd say. They would talk about his latest case. They would discuss it, and Sherlock would find an answer joyfully by the end of the night, like he'd been doing over and over again these last few weeks.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was no longer alone. John was sitting across from him, smiling at him softly. The sight filled Sherlock with such comfort, such joy, his heart almost hurt with how quickly it pulsed. Sherlock closed his eyes once more, resting his head against the back of his chair.

"My John," he whispered slowly, softly, "the soldier that kept marching on..."


	2. The Genius

**02 - The Genius**

The house was too quiet. Every sound seemed irritating to the ears and John was distracted by it as he sat in a low armchair in his living room, listening to the subtle sound of Mary's fingers hitting the keyboard of her laptop, tapping, tapping... He didn't know what she could be doing. Writing emails, researching something? There was no way of telling. She rarely ever spoke about her current work. It was late in the evening, around ten O'clock, and they had barely said a word to each other all day.

John wasn't sure how the day had slipped by so quickly. Most days were like that, lately. He watched a bit of TV, read a few books that he couldn't get an interest in, and now it was already so late. He wasn't sure what had forced him to come downstairs, to sit in here in silence, to wait. He decided he should break his own boredom by trying to speak to Mary. Clearing his throat in the deafening silence, he asked, "Do you fancy a bit of music?"

Without looking up, without so much as changing her expression, Mary answered, "No, honey. I'm working."

This is how days started and ended every day. Mary became progressively more distant and bothered by her work while John was stressed by solitude. He had barely anything to do.

"When do you reckon you'll be finished?"

She was annoyed at the question. Again, without taking her eyes from the screen, she answered, "You know I'm being overworked, John. It'll be a few hours before I'm done."

A silence fell at her words. John let it drag on, realising now that even if she finished work, she would probably start an argument with him from the stress. He barely felt comfortable enough to breath normally in here, in case the noise annoyed her further. He would have preferred it if she didn't work at home at all; at least then he'd have a reason for feeling alone. He stood up.

"I'll be upstairs, alright?"

She may not have heard him. She didn't even nod – she just closed her eyes pointedly in annoyance. John left the room. As soon as he distanced himself from her with two corridors and a flight of stairs, a wave of desolation washed over him. In the silent, empty bedroom, he didn't know what to do. He sat on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands, breathing out heavily.

A large TV buzzed dully before him, shedding horrid blue hue over the room and highlighting the shape of the plain, generously spaced furniture nearby. John hadn't bothered to turn on any of the lamps around him; they would cast a bright orange light that hurt his eyes at this time of night. This was thanks to the many elaborate lampshades Mary had dedicated hours choosing – or so she said.

John wondered whether he was tired enough, yet, to sleep. He let his hands drop from his face heavily. More often than not, he felt exhausted without reason. It had been this way for years, now, and he didn't give it much thought until late at night. He stared off into space, not taking in a single detail of the room around him. He didn't want this to be another night of exhaustion. He feared his thoughts would keep him up...

Anticipating the worst, John stood up. He breathed out heavily, dizzied by weariness. He headed for the bathroom, turning on the light-switch and shielding his eyes against the blinding white light inside. He fumbled for the medicine cabinet, reaching for his anti-depressants. When his hand touched the plastic bottle, a memory flashed to mind, dating back to a few months ago.

It was a memory of a potential break-in – the first time John had used the art of deduction in years. That night had been like any other, except when he entered this very room to take his pills, like normal, a soft breeze had caught his attention. It was coming from the window. John knew that window had been closed before and he was sure Mary hadn't used the upstairs bathroom yet that evening, so he had paused, puzzled. A bottle of shampoo had been knocked over, spilling slowly.

John's eyes had moved across the room cautiously, he remembered, finding more details. The mat in front of the bathtub had been twisted, slightly, as if a foot had landed upon it. Was this was the result of an intruder jumping into the room through the window? There was evidence of dirt. The intruder had to be light; almost nothing else in the room was disturbed. In a wave of thrilled interest, John had inspected the rest of the room, but to his sheer disappointment, he had found no more evidence of disturbance.

This had left John with one question: how could an intruder make such an obvious entry, but leave no trace of their intentions? There was no visible evidence describing what had happened. Nothing had been stolen, nothing had been ruined, and it was clear that the intruder didn't go any further than the bathroom. Unless a determined, talented homeless person had popped in for a quick chance to use the loo, there was no reasonable explanation for this crime.

Unless, John had thought, somebody had _wanted_ him to see this obvious break-in. Unless someone had done all of this to... to what? To give him hope? To interest him? John's heart had sunk swiftly, his interest faltering. That was an irrational thought. There was no reasonable explanation for this crime, if it was a crime at all. This could all be because Mary had cracked the window open, knocking over the shampoo bottle and twisting the mat on her way out...

John had pushed the thought out of his mind in defeat. His therapist told him to stop obsessive behaviour like this. She had told him to stop chasing clues, to give up on the power of deduction he had learnt. She had told him, more sternly still, to stop looking for evidence of a trail to Sherlock Holmes...

John wasn't sure why this memory came to mind so powerfully tonight. He blinked a few times, bring himself back to the present. The bottle of pills in his hand was warm from the touch of his skin. He remembered that that night his curiosity had distracted him so much, he hadn't taken his medication at all. It hadn't changed much. He took the pills now, mechanically, and stared at a bottle of sleeping pills. Deciding that he'd rather stay up to see if Mary came to bed at a usual hour, he ignored the latter pills.

She didn't come to bed any time soon, however. John lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't fall asleep, to no surprise. He wondered if maybe Mary couldn't take the stress of dealing with him. There was a strong possibility that she could be avoiding him on purpose, trying to make her own space because they had been near each other non-stop for over a year. Was that a logical explanation? John couldn't be sure. All he knew was that she clearly felt angry and neglected by him.

When John fell asleep, hours later, to put his mind at rest, he found no peace or comfort in the safety of his dreams. That night, he dreamt that Sherlock had broken into his house, but he'd slipped upon climbing through the window. John had heard the noise and had heard Sherlock's voice as he shouted in agony. When he ran to the window to find him, he found nothing but shattered, blood-stained glass. When he looked down, Sherlock was falling, growing smaller and smaller the further away he got from John, until –

John woke up. It was the middle of the night. Mary was lying next to him, her back turned to him, fast asleep. John breathed in and out quickly, sweating heavily. Months ago, when Mary fell asleep in the same hour as him, she would have been awake to ask him what was wrong. John's mouth was very dry. In an attempt to calm himself down, he sat up, getting out of bed. He left the bedroom to get a drink in the kitchen downstairs.

A glass of water cooled him down instantly. He stared out of the kitchen window, looking at the navy blue sky through his own reflection. He didn't understand why he still had these dreams. It had been three years since Sherlock's 'death' and John knew, now, that he wasn't dead. John had spoken to him, he invited him into his own home, so why, after everything, could he not get over his fake suicide?

It had been a surreal experience, seeing Sherlock again. It was almost too overwhelming to comprehend. Lestrade had told him cautiously, joyously, over the phone that Sherlock was still alive. The information seemed impossible and when John had asked questions about it, he wasn't able to hear his own voice over the sound of pulse pounding in his ears. It wasn't hard to avoid Mary that night, to accept this information on his own.

By the time Sherlock had dropped by, a few weeks later, John had been too numbed by shock to talk to him properly. When he spoke to Sherlock, inviting him inside to meet Mary, the whole event felt unreal – far more unreal than the nightmares John continuously had. Whenever John mentioned this to his therapist, she told him it was a usual part of the process of moving on.

John lowered his empty glass, breathing in heavily. He didn't know why these thoughts, of all things, should haunt him at this hour, causing him to tense in anxiety. He hadn't seen Sherlock in weeks, maybe months, and as far as he was concerned, this was far easier for the both of them. John drank one more glass of water before making his way, slowly, upstairs. He hoped he could catch a few more hours of sleep. Mercifully, his hope came true.

The next morning was a repeat of almost every single morning John had faced for the last year. It was a monotonic blur. He woke up to the sight of sunlight shining brightly through his windows, but he felt more exhausted than he should after so much sleep. Mary was downstairs, working already. John offered her some coffee, making some for himself. She declined. John made himself breakfast in solitude, wondering if he should try to find work soon, just to have something to do.

When he took a seat opposite Mary with his breakfast, she surprised him by speaking a little first.

"I heard your phone ring, before a few messages were received," she said. "Don't forget to check it."

"Really?"

Barely anyone messaged John, lately. He set down his mug of coffee, reaching for his mobile. There were two missed calls and one text from Lestrade. John skimmed through the message, but it was nothing important: "_Fancy watching a bit of football, getting a few drinks? There's a right nice place near mine, if you're interested. :) -GL_"

John thought it over for only a few seconds before deciding that this would at least be something to do. He sent a text back to Lestrade, agreeing to meet up with him. Mary had no objections when he said he was going out. She was meeting up with a friend, Benjamin, later anyway.

The pub Lestrade invited John to was like any other pub he'd been to: packed with people, noisy, and full of plenty of alcohol. Lestrade was waiting inside. A smile crossed his face upon seeing John; he welcomed him warmly.

"Shall we get a pint?"

"Sure," John agreed, somewhat glad for an excuse to get drunk.

Lestrade told John to take a table nearby so they'd get a good view of the game on the TV. When he brought the drinks over a few minutes later, he was smiling again.

"This is good, isn't it?" he asked cheerfully, sitting down. "Watching a bit of football, catching up again. It's been well long since we had the chance to do this."

"Yeah," John agreed distractedly.

In reality, he couldn't recall meeting up with Lestrade many times since Sherlock's fall. Those first two years were a hazy to John. Most people had avoided him entirely, as if they feared catching sorrow from him. It was a valid fear, he supposed.

"I'm just chuffed that things have been getting back to normal round here," Lestrade carried on. "How have things been between you and Mary?"

John wished he hadn't asked. "About the same as ever."

Lestrange seemed to understand this wasn't an entirely good answer. "Are you still arguing?"

"Not as much, no."

"Well, that's good then."

John couldn't say he agreed. He took a swig of beer.

When a few minutes passed, John decided to use this opportunity to speak with someone about a problem that bothered him, concerning Mary. With a surprising lack of hesitance, he said, "I think Mary's interested in another man."

Lestrade nearly choked on his pint. "What?"

John shook his head slightly, looking down. "I dunno what else I'd expect, really."

"But that's – that's not good!" Lestrade stammered. "How long's this been going on for?"

"I don't know," John answered truthfully, "but with everything that's going on, I think I understand. It's just too much for her to deal with. It's surprising this didn't happen sooner, really."

"That's... That's rough luck," Lestrade managed, staring at John with a serious, concerned gaze. "What're you going to do about it?"

John looked away in a mix of solemnity and irritation. "Live with it, I suppose."

"You're going to stay with her after all that?"

"I still care about her."

Lestrade said nothing. He might have been shocked by how little John cared, or might have feared he was settling for something less than he deserved, but either way, he seemed sure that these fears were acknowledged without saying. He was keen to change the subject.

"Have you had any luck finding work, these last few weeks?"

John wished Lestrade wouldn't ask questions that ended with negative, unchanging answers.

"No," he said, "I still can't find enough motivation to stay interested."

"Ah, well," Lestrade began awkwardly, "it only makes sense. You shouldn't worry – things'll start up normally again, some time soon."

He smiled kindly, but John barely noticed. A question caught his curiosity.

"How's work been for you?"

"Ah, it's been well good, lately. Things have been working out really smoothly – better than ever, I'd say."

"Is Sherlock still working on your cases?"

Lestrade smile faltered. The question, apparently, made him uncomfortable.

"Yeah," he said carefully, "it's why we've been having so much success, I suppose."

John nodded once in understanding, his brow furrowed. He didn't know why Lestrade was discomforted by the question. Was he reluctant to admit that Sherlock was doing better than ever alone? Or _because_ he was alone, even? The thought was troubling. Sherlock must have moved on, John realised. He didn't know why he cared. He took a deep swig of beer, pushing the thought out of his mind.

They spoke normally from this point on, changing the subject to stories about Lestrade's work. The conversation was calm and they even laughed quite a bit, but John couldn't keep this new information at bay forever. When he returned home that night, he was haunted by thoughts of Sherlock. It was all he could think about as he stood in his kitchen, pouring himself another drink, enjoying the precious time before Mary came home.

He was worried that Sherlock had never truly needed him to solve his cases. Solving crimes was just about the only job John had ever enjoyed, unless being in the army counted, so the idea of his part in Sherlock's cases being meaningless terrified him. He often wondered, during these last few years, whether he should have gone back to the army, to leave this life behind him, to return to a time when Sherlock didn't exist...

As much as John tried to forget this painful fear, there was no distraction good enough to keep it out of his mind for good. He couldn't focus on anything, not even TV. He had nightmares almost every night, reminding him of Sherlock. One morning, as he stood in his cold kitchen, drinking alone, he came to the overwhelming realisation that he felt as if Sherlock was still dead.

"But you know he's alive, don't you?" his therapist, Jane, asked calmly. John was sitting in her office, going over his day-to-day thoughts.

"Of course, yeah," John answered. "I can't just forgotten something like that."

Jane thought about this, pausing. She clicked her pen into action, scribbling down a few notes John forced himself to look away from.

She was the forth therapist John had had since Sherlock's death. He kept quitting them in anger, pained by the things they said. He had left his last therapist the moment he leant Sherlock was still alive – he couldn't accept the pain and anger he felt upon remembering how many times she forced him to stop searching for Sherlock's trail. It had been too much to take.

"How does it make you feel, John, when you believe he's dead?"

John had to try very hard to not give a sarcastic answer. "How do you think it makes me feel?"

Jane didn't answer. She waited patiently for him to go on, appearing unfazed by his anger.

Rubbing his mouth his palm in stress, John tried to find a reasonable, calm answer. He stared at an ugly abstract painting behind Jane.

"I feel like – like it's normal," he said, "thinking he's dead..."

"But it angers you, doesn't it? When you force yourself to realise he's alive?"

John moved his hand up to his eyes, to pinch the bridge of his nose. He nodded shortly.

"Why does it anger you, John?"

He took a long time to think, lowering his hand heavily and staring, again, at that ugly painting.

"I feel like... like none of this should have happened," he said. "I feel cheated..."

Jane decided to write this down, or something similar. John listened to the scratching of her pen. He heard how many words she wrote, how strongly her pen slid across the paper, how long she paused between sentences. She was a relatively new therapist, he knew. She looked up with interest, an idea coming to mind.

"What if you were to continue believing Sherlock is gone, John? What if you kept this illusion going?"

"No, absolutely not," John said without hesitation. "I can't do that, I can't just pretend that nothing's happened. I'd still think about it. I'd still have dreams about it..."

By 'dreams' he, of course, meant 'nightmares'. This wouldn't slip Jane's notice.

"Alright," she said comfortably, "then what if you were to talk to Sherlock again? It would be the first step to breaking the illusion. You have to acknowledge and accept that he's alive."

John thought this through slowly, strongly disliking the idea at first. If he didn't want to run from Sherlock, however, or pretend nothing had happened, this seemed the only logical solution. It would make things real, so he could work things through.

"I guess I could try..."

So three days later, John stood bravely on Baker Street in London, breathing in the same smells, looking at the same view he had run away from not so long ago. When he lived alone here, he had felt trapped. He had blamed 221B for his misery and when he found Mary, when he escaped to her flat across London, he had felt better. Those days seemed a long way away, now. As John clambered out of his car onto this windy, cold autumn evening, he felt nothing but a growing sense of anxiety.

He hadn't sent Sherlock a text to warn him of his arrival, mainly because he was acting on a whim to show up here at all. He knocked in the front door, faced the new land lord, and was allowed, impatiently, to head upstairs. Outside of 221B John made no hesitation before knocking. There was the sound of a muffled voice, which stopped upon interruption. A few moments later, footsteps drew closer, and the door opened.

Sherlock appeared. His tired eyes seemed to light up upon seeing who was at the door. John thought, at first, that this was because of astonishment, but when he watched Sherlock for a moment longer, he thought he could sense fear.

"John... I – I didn't expect you."

This much was obvious. John began to notice, slowly, just how dishevelled Sherlock looked. He was breathless and clearly very nervous.

"Is this a bad time?" John asked, thinking Sherlock might be working on a case. "I'll come back later, if-"

"No," Sherlock said at once, blinking many times. "No – no it's fine. Come in..."

He opened the door wide. Even as John nodded politely, stepping inside, Sherlock didn't seem to calm. He was tense. He ran a hand through his dark hair, closing the door.

"Take a seat right there, if you –"

Sherlock stopped. John was already sitting in his usual chair and Sherlock was surprised. He looked at John closely, as if deciding whether or not he could trust what he was seeing. John attempted to stand up, thinking he had sat in the wrong place.

"No, it's alright," Sherlock told him quickly. "I'm merely – merely amused that you knew which seat I'd offer."

John said nothing, trying to hide his confusion. It was the obvious seat to take. Sherlock made his way across the room, clearing his throat gently as he sat down too. It wasn't quite the same chair he had owned when John lived here, but it was close.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

There was something changed in Sherlock's eyes, something pained. At the question, he blinked a few times, his Adam's apple pulling up. "Of course, yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

The obvious answer to this would be, of course, that living alone wasn't so great. John had stayed in this very room for two solid years without Sherlock and not a day went by with him feeling alright.

Sherlock cleared his throat again, uncomfortable under John's serious gaze.

"I'm surprised you're here at all," he said. "I rather thought you preferred avoiding me."

"Avoiding you?" John repeated, taken aback. "I was never avoiding you, Sherlock. I just... I know things are different now."

Sherlock nodded once, as if he understood, but John wasn't sure he did. It was strange, being back here, seeing Sherlock in almost the exact same place he had been three years ago. For so long, John had wanted him to return to this flat...

"I met up with Lestrade two weeks ago," John said, as if this explained his reason for visiting. He wanted to keep talking, to avoid being too unsettled by the situation. "He said he reckons work has been better than ever, for you."

"Yes, I'd have to say he's right," Sherlock admitted. "Things have gone back to what they once were. I've found that life here is almost the same..."

This much was evident from the large percentage of furniture around Sherlock that had been returned here, to its rightful place. John supposed he had hunted down all of his old stuff. It was both strange and oddly nostalgic, seeing the place decorated warmly, like it had always been. Even his skull and violin were here again. John wondered how Sherlock had retrieved these from Mycroft.

After a few minutes, John realised he felt oddly lonely sitting here, having this conversation. It didn't make the situation feel any more real. He had nothing to talk to Sherlock about and he felt as if Sherlock didn't want him here: he was staring at John oddly. The silence dragged on. Sherlock looked somewhere between bewildered and mistrusting.

A thought seemed to be bugging him. He looked away from John, before suddenly bringing his hands together.

"Drinks!" he said, "Would you like one?"

"No, I'm alright, thanks," John answered, unsettled by Sherlock's sudden change of mood, "I won't be here for long."

"Right, alright..."

Silence fell again. John noticed just how untidy this apartment was – which wasn't very surprising. When John lived alone here, the only thing that kept this place clean with a sympathetic Mrs Hudson. When she passed away, this place had been barely recognizable. John had only ever cleaned it before Mary came around... which hadn't been very often, if he could help it.

"I don't suppose anyone else has been helping you, on your cases?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head to the side once, surprised. "Why would anyone be helping me?"

"Well, it's just, that's how you used to solve your cases, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He frowned. "Why would I–?"

"Forget it, Sherlock," John said quickly. "It's alright."

Sherlock watched him closely, as if trying to get a thought straight. John drummed his fingers idly on the arm of his chair. A painful minute passed. That's it, John realised, he really had no reason to be here.

He stood up. "Actually, I should probably get going..."

Sherlock was alarmed. He stood up too. "What? No, don't go yet!"

John stared at him, bemused. He was very on edge. "Sherlock, are you sure you're–?"

"I'm alright," Sherlock answered quickly. "I'm alright... I just thought, since you came here, you might have more to say."

He tried to smile, weakly. The gesture alarmed John, somewhat. "What more could I have to say?"

To this, Sherlock had no answer. He shook his head, looking away from John for the first time, as if he lost his trail of thought. "I – I don't know..."

Sherlock was sweating lightly, at a lack for words. His hands were shaking as he stood before John. The silence forced him to carry on mumbling.

"It was an illogical assumption, I suppose..."

"Right," John said slowly. "Well... I should go, anyway."

Sherlock seemed tempted to stop him again. He opened his mouth to speak, but something was holding him back. John waited, unable to understand why he was acting so strangely. Sherlock watched him with a strained stare, until his expression slipping away in defeat. He straightened up.

"Very well..."

John stood where he was for a moment, hesitating. "I'll see you around, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Goodbye..."

John left. On his way down the flight of stairs in the hallway, he felt anger at his own self catching up with him. He had no idea why he had come here at all. What could be gained, by having that conversation? John felt like a stranger to Sherlock and that certainly didn't make his existence seem any more real. He opened the front door hurriedly, heading out into the dark street.

Thinking over Sherlock's strange behaviour and mentally cursing himself for showing up here at all, John didn't notice anything unusual when he headed for his car. He fumbled for his keys, reaching the the door-handle, when a dark car rolled up behind his. He stood very still. He recognised that car. He recognised its slow, deliberately eerie pace. Mycroft Holmes had sent somebody.

Deciding that he had nothing better to do, John locked his car, heading towards the new one with a certain degree of caution. For about twenty minutes, the chauffeur drove John across London. When they arrived outside Mycroft's building, John stepped out into the night, pulling his coat in closer against the howling winds around him. The building was warm, but uncomfortable. John waited only a few minutes inside before being shown to Mycroft's office.

When he arrived in the warm, richly furnished room, he found Mycroft sitting in a chair leisurely, waiting for him.

"Ah, Doctor Watson!" Mycroft greeted deceivingly, a forced smile on his face. "How kind of you to take my offer to come here tonight... Do sit down, won't you?"

"Thank you," John muttered politely, taking a seat opposite Mycroft, who's piggish eyes were fixed on him with a certain hint of disinterest or preoccupation.

"Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

Unfazed by the decline, Mycroft poured himself a glass of unidentifiable liqueur from a crystal pitcher into a matching, delicate tumbler. John watched him, but his mind was elsewhere. He didn't know why Sherlock had been so disarrayed and stressed. He must have been forced into a lot of work lately – to his delight, most likely.

"So, John," Mycroft began, placing his glass down on a table lazily, "I'm sure you must be wondering why I invited you here tonight."

"I assume you have something to say to me about Sherlock," John answered, "seeing as you picked me up from outside his flat."

"Correct," said Mycroft, breathing in heavily. "Your presence at his residence concerns me, John. Deeply concerns me..."

John frowned. "I don't see how it's any of your concern."

Mycroft surveyed him closely. "As reluctant as I may normally be to admit it... I'm worried about my dear brother."

"Oh, right," John began monotonically, before he could stop himself, "and sending a few cabbies to spy on him seems like the rational, healthy response to that fear."

Mycroft cast him a cold, cruel simper. "I find it helpful to keep an eye on what Sherlock is up to. Is that not my responsibility, as his brother?"

"There are plenty of people watching over him," John mentioned. "Lestrade, for one."

"Lestrade may have known Sherlock for a long time," Mycroft began idly, "but he fails to notice things that people closer to him might..."

"You do realise that Sherlock is going to notice you're watching him, right? My car is still waiting outside of his flat."

"I doubt he'll think much of it."

"You doubt he'll think much of –? He's Sherlock Holmes! How he could possibly fail to see where I've gone?"

"He's blind to these things, John. He's –"

John laughed in disbelief, interrupting Mycroft's words. "You're serious? If this is what's happened to you after three years of not seeing Sherlock, I think he should spend a _lot_ more time away."

Mycroft glared at him coldly, impatiently. "I hear he's lost his touch."

John's smile slipped away. He stared at Mycroft, seeing his hostile expression and hearing his grave tone. A nearby clock ticked in the silence. "Well, I've heard otherwise."

"Oh, don't listen to optimistic gossip, John, you're worth more than that."

"What do you mean?" John asked. "I don't understand – Sherlock has been solving more cases than ever. That isn't gossip, that's fact."

"Whether or not he's solving more cases is irrelevant," Mycroft told him sternly. "What matters is the importance and difficulty of the mysteries. My brother has been working often, yes, but I fear he's losing touch of the bigger picture. With Moriarty gone and Sebastian Moran at bay, there is somewhat less of a thrill and threat keeping Sherlock interested. He's moved onto solving trivial crimes."

"And this is a problem because..?"

"My brother does not normally take on common, trivial cases to amuse himself with. He cannot function properly with a lack of fascination, interest, and thrill in his life. He is bored by the mundane; it repels him. So, we must ask ourselves this: what could be keeping Sherlock Holmes so delighted that he no longer needs a single case of interest to distract him?"

John had no answer. He could see why Mycroft was concerned, now. All of this made complete sense... only one thing was off. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I'm telling you because you showed up at his flat today, John. I've been waiting for this. I fear that if you are to be in close proximity with my brother again, you will be... drawn in."

"Drawn in to what?"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He wetted his lips, looking away, thinking deeply.

"With the recent incidences," he began slowly, choosing his words with caution, "I fear my bother may have become... destructive. I trust you know that he attacked a man he believed to be James Moriarty not two months ago?"

John nodded curtly.

"Well, I know my brother well and I fear that was just the beginning. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man, John. I assume the last three years haven't failed to highlight just how much pain he can inflict..."

He had been waited to say this; it was obvious by the deliberation of his tone. John pressed his lips into a thin line, looking away.

"If you want to avoid further pain," Mycroft carried on, "I suggest you stay far away."

"You don't have to tell me any of this," John informed him flatly. "I'm not interested in having anything to do with Sherlock."

Mycroft didn't seem convinced. He smiled falsely. "Well... let us hope you can continue avoiding him, then."

John was tempted to bring up how strange Sherlock was acting, but he refrained. He didn't want to get involved in all of this. What's more, he didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of having information on Sherlock.

"You may go," Mycroft said apathetically, "but heed my advice, Doctor Watson..."

John left with no reluctance.

Although he was unresponsive to Mycroft's warning, John saw this meeting as further reason to avoid Sherlock completely from now on. He didn't want to get involved in Sherlock's mad life; he was a stranger to John, now, and it was easier to forget and more on completely. John was wasting about as much time thinking about Sherlock as Mycroft was by spying on him. When John returned home that night, he decided it was best to try and ignore everything that happened.

He tried to live a normal life, settling with what he had. He wanted to ignore the changes that had happened these last few years, because John only ever got hurt by change. It was clear, in his eyes, that Sherlock was doing fine on his own and that as bothered as Mycroft may be by his success, Sherlock was never going to change. John knew he shouldn't care about it at all. He didn't want to waste time on Sherlock. He didn't want to risk losing him again...

Fait, however, didn't agree with John's plans. As life at home became progressively more monotonic and depressing, John took to wandering the streets of London, saying, initially, that he wanted to find work, when in reality, he wanted to avoid Mary. It was during one of these wanderings that John was forced back into the path of his old life.

He was wandering, alone, through a crowded lane, passing roads and shops that he had run past with Sherlock numerous times during the course of their work together, when he happened to glance at a window of a nearby shop. To his amazement, John caught sight of an object he recognised through a sea of people: a cow skull. Sherlock's cow skull.

Even from a distance, John was sure this skull was the same. For years, he had stared at it almost every morning, taking note of every subtle characteristic. He headed into the thrift shop, his interest caught. He couldn't remember selling anything to this particular shop, but he knew how quickly things could be sold throughout the streets of London. With a quick 'hello' to the shopkeeper, John went immediately to the shop's display window.

He laughed to himself in joyous disbelief – this had to be the same skull! The coincidence was to bizarre to not interest him. He picked the item up from the tall wooden table it rested on, examining it was a grin.

"That'll be £65, mate," the shopkeeper informed him. He had moved across the shop to greet John, eager to con him out of some money at the sight of his enthusiasm. "Thinking about doing some decorating?"

John's smile slipped away at the question. He stood with the skull held firmly in his hands, staring at the shopkeeper. He realised, suddenly, that this item was useless to him. What could he do with it, bring it home? Mary would hate it. She was a vegan and she strongly opposed animal cruelty; she would see this as a cruel item, representing murder.

"Oh, I... I dunno if I want to buy it, really."

What distracted John the most was realising he wanted to get this for Sherlock. Every item Sherlock owned had a story, a reason for being near him, so John felt obligated, at first, to bring this back to him.

"Well, this ain't no museum," the shopkeeper said bitterly. "Put it back where you found it..."

He turned away, disappointed. John stared down at the cow's skull, his brow furrowed. He placed it back on its small table, turning away too. He left the shop.

He thought a lot that day about what Mycroft had said to him. Sherlock was a dangerous person... John wished only that this made him easier to forget. He drove home slowly, unwilling to spend the rest of the evening doing nothing but sitting in silence, waiting for something to happen. When he pulled into his driveway, the house looked peaceful. The living room lights were on. Mary must still be up, working. John headed inside.

To his surprise, he entered the house to find Mary in a panic. She was crying, clutching a phone in her hand. When she heard him entering the house, she turned to face him at, her red eyes gleaming with fresh tears.

"Oh, John!"

"What's happened?" he asked immediately. "Mary, are you alright?"

"I'm f-fine... I just got off the phone with my father."

For the first time in weeks, John felt something towards Mary that wasn't resentment: he was scared. He moved across the room in an attempt to help her, taking her hand gently. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know," Mary wailed, sobbing. "There's been a series of r-robberies at his office!"

John stared in shock as she dabbed her eyes with a fresh tissue.

"Is everyone alright? What was stolen?"

"They w-weren't after money," Mary explained shakily. "They – they wanted information t-to threaten my father with... It'll risk his life, his company – everything..."

"Tell me they've called the police?"

"Y-yes, of course. They're already t-there. They've been there for – for hours."

"When did all of this happen?"

"Earlier today. I- I only got the call an hour ago."

"Was anybody hurt? Anyone killed?"

"No, thank god..."

John moved away from her, thinking. Mary's father, Mr Morstan, owned a large company, with an office building in London. This was a grave situation. John wondered whether he might be able to get some further details if he called Lestrade. He turned back to Mary at once, taking out his phone.

"Do you know the name of any of the officers working on the case?"

She shook her head, her red eyes pouring out more tears. "I can't remember. Some sort of – of 'Detective Inspector'. I d-don't recall the name..."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

She shrugged, looking away, upset by the whole situation. "I can't remember."

John turned his attention to his phone, knowing he'd still be able to gain at least some information from Lestrade. "I'm going to make a few calls, to get a few more details, alright? It's going to be sorted out, I promise."

She only cried more at his words. He skipped through names on his phone, looking for Lestrade.

"T-there is somebody we know on the case, I think," Mary told him.

"Really? Who?"

"That – that private detective you know, the one who v-visited a few months ago. The famous one. What was his name... House? No, or..."

"Holmes?" John asked, his heart skipping a beat. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, that's the one... How could I forget? The things he said, you'd t-think he owned the place..."

John was no longer listening. He picked up his phone, dialling Lestrade's number.

"...Hello?"

"Lestrade? It's John Watson."

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd call!"

"Really?"

"Yeah, 'course! Me and the boys are already on the case. Mr Morstan had a right bad robbery – we haven't been able to find any leads yet, but we've called in Sherlock. He should be here soon."

"So – so, he is on the case, then?"

Lestrade paused on the other end of the phone. "He doesn't have to be if you'd prefer him not t-"

"No, it's fine. He's the best, isn't he? It's good..."

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed, his voice fuzzy through the phone. He paused, distracted by the crime scene, maybe. "It's one hell of a coincidence though, isn't it? It's bad luck."

John was in no state to think about it. He glanced at Mary, who was sitting down, her lips shaking in suppressed sorrow. "Yeah, it is..."

"Listen, I've got to go," Lestrade told him, "but I'll be sure to keep you updated. Alright?"

"Alright," John agreed numbly. "That'd be perfect. Just try your best to solve this case quickly, won't you?"

"Of course, yeah."

"I'll talk to you later, then."

"Alright. See you..."

With a faint '_click'_, Lestrade hung up.

John lowered his phone. It worried him to realise Sherlock would be on this case. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock learning about Mary's family, getting involved in all of this business. On top of that, he didn't like the idea of being in debt to Sherlock. But what choice did he have? He was the best detective in the country...

"Is everything al-alright?"

John turned to Mary, trying to smile in a reassuring way. "Everything's fine. I know the people working on your case; they're the best detectives England has."

"Oh, thank god!" Mary said again, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank god.."

John couldn't say he was particularly happy about the situation, however. He anticipated something had happening and by the next day, his anticipations came true. John had decided to not go anywhere near the crime scene, but when Mary returned home from it, she was shaken and angry.

She told him that Sherlock had been even more curt and rude to her today than he'd been when they met a few months ago. He insulted Mary's father, too, as well as the majority of the employees in Mr Morstan's office building.

"But did he solve the case?" John asked, knowing this was the only thing of real important.

"They found a lead," Mary told him, "to the criminals who started all of this..."

Later on that evening, Lestrade called John to explain the situation: they were on their way to finding where the thieves were located. John was wholly interested in this case and he listened over the next few days to how the situation was unravelling. Three days into the crime, Sherlock had tracked down one of the thieves and with his arrest, everything fell to pieces for the other criminals.

The detained thief spilled all the information he had on his four companions. The Police were able to track each of the criminals down, eventually gaining back Mr Morstan's lost information. Mary was thrilled, speaking highly of Lestrade's team's work, saying little to nothing about Sherlock himself.

"We truly must thank them," she say joyously, smiling. "You'll do that for me, won't you, John?"

"Of course, yeah," John agreed, sitting besides her on their small couch. He took her hand gently, smiling. "I knew they'd be able to sort this all out."

She smiled back, but looked away. After too short a time, she pulled her hand from his, sighing. "I have a _lot_ of emails to write, so if you'll excuse me..."

John sat very still, his heart sinking. Mary ignored the way his eyes fixed on her. He was unable to believe that she could logically be working more at nine O'clock at night. She had her laptop out already. He stood up. This was too much for him to accept without annoyance. He left the room, not saying a word.

John lay in bed for hours that night, wishing all the while that sleep would wash over him, taking him away. He was obsessing over the case and every detail he had learnt about it. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he couldn't help it. He worried that something had been missed, or that Mycroft was right and Sherlock had lost his touch... John felt as if something was wrong. He thought about the thieves, the information, the pace of the case, the solution... He almost wished he had gone to the crime scene, just to eradicate his own suspicions.

The case was too simple. Although Sherlock had studies a lot of mundane mysteries lately, this wasn't the only off thing. Mr Morstan happened to be a very wealthy businessman, so why had these thieves been so clumsy? Why would a captured thief rat the others out? Nothing could possibly be gained from that, unless the thieves had no loyalty for each other – in which case, how could they pull off such a huge heist?

John stared at the ceiling, breathing evenly. None of this made sense. If the five thieves didn't feel loyalty for each other, they weren't friends. Why would five strangers put that much trust into each other? They had to lave a leader. Or an employer, more likely: someone working behind the scenes, paying off these five strangers to retrieve information that was valuable only through his hands. Did that make it likely that a captured thief would rat out the others? John didn't think so.

The employer would have made sure that his five thieves feared him. He would have threatened their lives, or something else important to them. If the captured thief had sold out his friends to defy the employer, he'd have to be pretty thick – and he would have mentioned the employer to the police too, anyway. Since the thief was undamaged and since the employer wasn't yet known, John could only assume one thing: the employer had meant for the thief to rat out his four companions.

The reason for this was obvious: the employer wanted to avoid paying all five thieves. He was pinning all of the blame on the captured thief, maybe even paying him extra money, or paying him in something more valuable than that. In freedom, perhaps? John couldn't be sure. Whatever he had offered, the thief had accepted. He had ratted out his companions. This left the employer free to continue his work unseen, to –

John froze where he lay, realisation and horror washing over him. If he was right and if no one yet knew, then the employer would have the ability to do whatever he wanted without detection. He may have rejected his thieves and may have given Mr Morstan back his information, according to the Police, but no information, once captured, could ever be fully replaced. Away from detection, the employer would have the ability to blackmail Mr Morstan without anyone else realising a thing.

John got out of bed, wide awake. He threw on some clothes at random, bolting down the stairs. When he passed the living room door, throwing his coat on, Mary noticed him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out," John told her in a rush. "There's... there's something I have to do. I won't be too long. I love you."

She turned away, frowning. She didn't say a word.

John headed out the door without hesitation, knowing how important this was. He jumped into his car, driving in the direction of London. He needed to speak to Sherlock about this as soon as possible.

He was surprised to find that, upon answering his door, Sherlock looked significantly less dishevelled than he had last time. His apartment was brighter and cleaner, too; the lights were all on. Sherlock was not uninviting when he saw John at his door.

"John, what a pleasant surprise... Do come in."

Breathless from how fast he had run up the stairs, John took the offer eagerly, heading for his usual seat. When he and Sherlock were both sitting down, he described his discovery in a rush, explaining his theory on the thieves having an employer and that employer being self-interested. When he was finished, Sherlock sat back in his chair, bringing the tips of his fingers together as if in prayer.

"This is brilliant," he said in a hushed voice. "It all fits..."

"So, you think this could really be happening, then?" John asked. "Mr Morstan could be being blackmailed?"

"It's a strong possibility, yes."

They looked at each other for a moment. John was thrilled, at first, that he had worked all of this out on his own, but dread soon found him. This was a far more complicated situation, now...

Sherlock stood up, his thoughts clearly catching hold him him wholly. He began to pace the room, thinking deeply.

"Moreover, this fits with quite a few details I might have otherwise overlooked..."

"Like what?"

"Mr Morstan strongly encouraged that the investigation was called off," Sherlock explained. "Once his documents were, apparently, returned, he wanted no further investigations that might bother his office."

"He must be hiding something, then. He must be scared that you, especially, will see he's being blackmailed!"

"Precisely..."

Sherlock brought his hands together before his lips again, staring into space.

John was impatient for them to begin making plans. He moved to the edge of his chair. "So, what do we do? Should we bring this theory to Lestrade, or –?"

"Lestrade may believe this is too weak a theory for the Police to act upon. We'll have to speak to Mr Morstan ourselves, to be sure we haven't missed anything. To be sure there aren't any further clues..."

"We?" John repeated. "You mean – the both of us?"

Sherlock stopped pacing the room and turned to face him. "Only if you want to, of course."

John opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't know what to say.

Sherlock smiled. "You seem surprised. You're the one who worked all of this out: it seems only logical that you'd join me."

John could find no strong objections. It felt so calming and so reasonable to make theories on this case, to speak to Sherlock now – John couldn't help but wonder what working with him fully might be like. With a lack of hesitance, he said, "Alright, then."

Sherlock was glad to hear it; his smile broadened and his eyes were alight with triumph.

"We should really tell Lestrade about this, though," John added in an afterthought. "Just to be sure we aren't missing anything else."

"If you want, then sure," Sherlock agreed. He seemed almost distracted. John wondered what was on his mind.

John stood up. "Text me when you've worked out a time for us to meet Lestrade, yeah? I hope we can work all of this out."

Sherlock inclined his head once, smiling gently.

John picked up his coat.

"One more thing, before you go, John."

"What is it?"

"What forced you to think about this long enough to work it all out?"

John thought about it for a moment, noticing, now, that Sherlock looked a little dishevelled, a little impatient. He didn't want to mention Mycroft, nor the conversation they had had. He gave another reason easily. "I wanted to be sure everything was fine, to keep Mary safe."

This, apparently, wasn't the answer Sherlock expected. His eyes narrowed for a moment, a crease forming between his eyebrows. His look of musing turned to annoyance.

"Well, then, you should go," he said in a low voice. "I wouldn't want to make Mary miss you with your absence..."

"Yeah," John agreed slowly, his heart sinking. "We'll talk more about this tomorrow, alright?"

"Sure. But John?"

"Yes?"

"Don't tell Mary about this. It'd be best to avoid needless panic..."

His tone was curt and abrupt. John couldn't understand where Sherlock's impatience was coming from – was he expecting someone else here? Was there something else he'd rather be doing? He decided not to push his luck by prolonging this visit.

"Alright. Have a good night, Sherlock."

He turned away, heading for the door.

"You too..."

The next morning, John received a text informing him of the time and place to meet Lestrade, as planned. He began the day calmly, glad for a reason to actually get up.

Mary was disinterested in why he had left last night and why he was going out again this evening. He wondered, somewhat dourly, whether she believed he was cheating. He wondered, too, if she would be more subtle about her own affairs if she realised he was somewhat of a detective. Regardless, he was glad to leave the house.

When he met with Sherlock and Lestrade later than evening, he explained the entire situation the best he could. Lestrade listened seriously, voicing cheerfulness over the fact that John was working alongside Sherlock again, and when he understood the entire situation, he thought it over carefully.

"You can talk to Mr Morstan if you like," he said, "but I can't say you'll find much. Even if he is being blackmailed, it'll be difficult to get the information out of him."

"I believe that's a obstacle we're willing to challenge," Sherlock said, appearing in good spirits about the entire case. "If you give us his address, we'll pop by for a short visit later in the week..."

Lestrade did as Sherlock suggested, wishing them good luck when they left his office. On their way out of the building, John and Sherlock didn't speak much, but John felt as if he should say something to express his gratitude. It was only when they were standing on the windy street outside, slowing to a stop, when he found a chance to speak.

"So, we'll drop by Mr Morstan's office later on in the week, then?"

"Yes. We'll go there whenever he's actually in the office. Check the dates with Mary – and do try your best to be subtle about it, won't you?"

"Yeah, of course."

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. "I should really be getting back."

"There's just one thing, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

John shifted where he stood for a moment, trying to find the right words. The strangers passing by the street around them didn't so much as look up as they headed for their various destinations, hunched against the wind.

"I want to thank you," John began, "for listening to all of this. I -"

"It's alright," Sherlock cut across him shortly, brushing away the sentiment. "You'd be better of saving your gratitude for Mr Morstan, after we've required this information from him."

John would have taken this as acceptance, if it weren't for the annoyed look Sherlock showed next. Did he not believe any of this mattered to John? As if fearing his thoughts, Sherlock straightened up, preparing to go.

"Text me when you have the dates."

He left shortly after this. John was stuck wondering how he could thank Sherlock and how he could make him believe that things were normal again.

The next day, he found an answer. He asked Mary when her father would be in at work and although she showed suspicion at the question, she gave the information up willingly enough. John wasn't interesting in giving Sherlock this information via text. He decided to drive to London himself, to meet with Sherlock as well as to pick up a gift that had been on his mind for a while: Sherlock's old cow skull.

It was a token of friendship, an expression of gratitude, and when Sherlock saw it, he smiled broadly.

"Where did you find this?"

"In a shop, not far from here."

Sherlock smiled again, examining the skull. "Apparently I haven't been searching nearby stores avidly enough to spot these old possessions... Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," John said quickly, "this is my thanks to you."

Sherlock looked at him now. He seemed almost troubled to hear it, but he decided, after only a second, to act upon happiness. He grinned once more. "I have the perfect place for it."

"Yeah?"

They moved further into the apartment, until Sherlock indicated a stretch of blank wall between two windows where the skull could go. It was the same place it had been before. Sherlock removed a single dry rose from a hook in the wall, placing the skull in its rightful place.

"It seems to be missing something," Sherlock mused, examining it closely.

John smiled. He reached into his coat pocket for the last touch: a pair of headphones.

Sherlock actually laughed upon seeing it. He took the headphones from John's hand gently, with sheer enjoyment, and placed it on the cow's skull. He took a stop back, ginning.

"It's perfect," he said.

John examined his expression, feeling equally as happy. He decided that spending time with Sherlock was a far more enjoyable than being alone, so he felt the need to ask, "Do you fancy coming around to mine later on?"

Sherlock mulled it over, pleasantly surprised. "Will Mary be there?"

"No, she's going out with a friend."

"Alright."

"Why?"

"I fear haven't gotten on her good side, somehow. I simply can't imagine why..."

John smiled at the joke before he could help himself. "Well, if she does show up, we'll at least have a reason to ask more questions about her father."

Without further restraint, Sherlock agreed. They stayed in 221B for about another hour or two, talking about various things, enjoying the time they had together. By the time they left and clambered into John's car, heading for his house, John felt as if things were almost normal again.

At his house, they talked more than ever over coffee, even going into details, somewhat, about what had happened these last few years. Sherlock spoke of Sebastian Moran, being careful to avoid the subject of Moriarty and his forced, fake suicide. After a while, John began to think about the case they were currently working on. Tomorrow they would go and meet Mr Morstan to question him about the recent events.

"We should really prepare for meeting," John said, "I've got all the details on my laptop upstairs. I'll send them to you now."

"Alright."

John headed out of the room and Sherlock followed him idly. In his bedroom, John sat at his desk, opening up his laptop and pulling his chair in. Sherlock was pacing the room idly, looking around.

"What's in here?"

He was pointing to a tall cupboard. Its doors were slightly ajar.

"Don't, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned. He was in a good mood this evening. "I didn't realise you had such issues concerning the closet, John."

"Just leave it, please..."

"Leave it, you say?" he repeats. "John, if you wanted me to leave whatever it is you're hiding in here, you'd know that saying 'leave it' is the exact wrong thing to do."

John said nothing, shaking his head in annoyance. He focused on his laptop.

In a single, rushed breath, Sherlock spoke again. "I must, therefore, conclude that I am meant to see this."

"What? No, Sherlock, don't –!"

John jumped up from the desk at once.

"Ah-ha, not so quick!" In a joyous, triumphant movement, Sherlock withdrew a black box. In the duration of his small speech, he had managed to work out the exact location of what John was trying to hide.

The large, boyish grin on Sherlock's face froze, before falling slowly as he examined what was in the box. It was a blue scarf, carefully folded and kept. John watched him, rooted to the spot, wincing in discomfort. A painful few seconds passed.

"I... I don't understand," Sherlock stammered. "Why keep it?"

In defeat, John realised he had to answer this. He looked away, his eyes scanning the room as he pressed his lips into a thin line nervously.

"So I wouldn't forget you..."

Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. John wanted to think that he felt sentiment for this moment, but it was hard to believe; Sherlock's mind worked on logic, not emotion.

Clearing his throat gently, John tried to change the subject, somewhat. "I'll just send that email..."

He did so, in near silence. Just when he believed nothing could become more awkward, however, Sherlock spoke again.

"You still have your cane?"

John didn't even turn around. "Clearly."

"Why did you keep that, too?"

"I still use it, sometimes."

If Sherlock was confused by this, he didn't say a word about it. John wondered why he had asked at all – surely he, of all people, could guessed why the cane was still here? When John was finished copying all the information Sherlock needed for tomorrow, he heard the front door downstairs open. Mary was home.

John sent the email quickly and headed downstairs with Sherlock.

"How are you?" he asked Mary upon seeing her.

"Fine," she said. "Fine. And you brought over Mr, er..?"

There was a slight pause, in which Sherlock and John were equally as disbelieving.

"Holmes," John said. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, yes, of course..."

"I believe we've met before," Sherlock said, stepping forwards to shake her hand. "In this very house, in fact."

"Yes..."

Whatever game she was playing, it clearly amused Sherlock in a cruel way.

"I worked on your fathers case," he said. "He had a break-in during the last week at his office, you see."

"Yes, I was there. I –"

"Well, I should get going," Sherlock cut across her, bored by her words. "I'll speak with you tomorrow, John. Yes?"

"Yeah, I'll see you then."

Sherlock grabbed his coat from behind Mary, saying he'd catch a cab. When he left, Mary turned to John in the silence, a cold look in her eyes.

"What was he doing here?"

"We had coffee," John explained. "Sherlock wanted to talk about the case, so I –"

"You call him 'Sherlock' now, do you? I thought you only knew him through work?"

"I do," John he said slowly. "Knowing his name is hardly unusual, Mary."

Mary didn't seem to want to hear it. She let out a low note of annoyance, moving down the hall. This, apparently, was enough for her to start an argument that night. She shouted at him for absolutely nothing, clearly somewhat drunk. John wondered if she was starting this fight on hidden guilt or stress. Whatever her problem was, he didn't speak to her much that night.

The following day, John met up with Sherlock in a café near Mr Morstan's office building. He had awoken that morning after very few hours of sleep, still stressed by Mary's unbearable arguing. Sherlock had been waiting patiently for him in this café. When he sat down, he watched John closely.

"Did Mary argue with you last night?"

John frowned. "How did you–?"

"I smelt alcohol on her when I got my coat," Sherlock explained shortly. "What is more, her passive-aggressive remarks suggested she was ready for an argument. You're especially tired today; you haven't had your morning coffee and you rushed to leave the house. It's obvious."

"Well, thanks for the warning."

Sherlock looked serious at this. "I thought you might have foreseen it too."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to tell when she'll argue and when she'll just ignore me all night."

A crease formed between Sherlock's eyebrows. Before he could say a word, a waiter came by to take their orders. Sherlock had nothing, but John ordered a strong coffee.

"So, what caused it?" Sherlock asked.

"What caused what?"

"Your argument."

"Oh. I dunno, really... I think she suspects something's wrong with her father."

"No, that can't be it. Unless you told her about it, but that would be highly foolish."

"I suppose," John, said slowly, "but she'll have to find out about it sooner or later."

"Make it later, then."

John was affronted by this. "Sherlock, I can't just lie to her."

"Why not? This isn't lying to her, anyway."

"How isn't it lying? Sherlock –"

"She's two steps away from being a work colleague to you, nevermind a wife."

John stared, outraged. "I happen to care about her, Sherlock!"

To his amazement, Sherlock stared at him in scorning disbelief. "How could you possibly care for that atrocious woman?"

John was about to retort, when his coffee arrived. He paused the conversation, saying "thank you" faintly before the waiter left.

Sherlock was annoyed, somehow. Did he realise, perhaps, that Mary was having an affair? Did he think John didn't know? John decided to not bring it up, lest it should spill information Sherlock didn't know.

"I don't care what you say about her. I love her, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed, unable to believe it. "You cannot possibly be serious. _Her?_ She of all people is who you choose to spend the rest of your life with, John?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She helped me to forget..."

Sherlock was speechless. John decided to elaborate, fuelled by annoyance.

"You barely even know her, Sherlock. You can't know her like I do."

Sherlock sat back in his chair slowly, looking away, as if all of this is new information. John didn't know why he was reacting in this way. He took a deep swig of warm coffee, needing the energy.

"She's a horrible woman," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I don't know what you see in her..."

John didn't say a word.

"How could you even like her?" Sherlock asked, unable to stop himself. "She's atrocious!"

John broke, annoyed now. "Do you think I expected you to like her? I thought you were dead, Sherlock! Of course I knew you'd hate her, of course I know you'd – you'd –"

John forced himself to stop talking, in fear of drawing too much attention to their table. He took a few deep breaths, too stressed.

"Do you truly love her?" Sherlock asked him.

"Of course I love her... What do you think all of this is for?"

Sherlock gave no answer. He watched John closely, his expression serious and calculating. He became submerged in thought.

John drank the rest of his coffee il silence, wishing this conversation hadn't happened.

"Shall we get this over and done with, then?" he asked, standing up. "The meeting's in an hour, but we might get lucky and get in early."

Sherlock agreed, but to no surprise, they waited in Mr Morstan's office for the full hour. Sherlock occupied himself by making cruel observations about the nearby office workers. John sat besides him solemnly, thinking about Mary. When a secretary informed the two of them that Mr Morstan was ready to see them, they headed for his office formally, starting an investigation together for the first time in three years.

Mr Morstan's office was very large and richly decorated with ghastly modern art, a large oak desk, large glass windows, matching chairs and couch, and a stuffed bear, to John's surprise – he wondered how Mary felt about it. Mr Morstan was a tall man with broad shoulders and a closely-shaved, smooth face. He bore a large, white-toothed grin upon greeting Sherlock and John. He shook their hands formally.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, his strong New York accent clashing oddly with the formality.

"I was wondering whether I might be able to ask you a few questions," Sherlock said, his eyes scrutinizing Mr Morstan as well as the office around him.

"I don't see why not," Mr Morstan said, his smiling slipping a little when he spotted Sherlock's suspicion. "What's on your mind?"

"I need a few more details on the case," Sherlock said, "just to make sure that everything is perfectly clear in the report."

"Alight. What do you need to know?"

"Not much. I merely need the name of your blackmailer and the exact sum of money you transferred to him to keep things nice and quiet."

Mr Morstan paled, his eyes widening. He made strange gagging sounds with his throat, like a fish pulled from water. "I don't – who – I –"

"Oh, I'm _dearly_ sorry," Sherlock said falsely, staring into Mr Morstan's popping eyes. "I appear to be skipping ahead of things a bit... It is clear to me, Mr Morstan, that you have been blackmailed."

"I – I don't understand. Who told you – how did you – ?"

"And in reaction to this deadly misdeed," Sherlock carried on, "you've taken to paying off the blackmailer in secret, to avoid police conflict and so on."

The man was flabbergasted. "What – what in god's name are you –?"

"I am not here under orders of the police, Mr Morstan. I've merely come here to ask you, once and for all, whether or not your blackmailer has ceased to threaten your life."

John thought Sherlock might be pushing this a bit too far. Mr Morstan was virtually cowering in shock; he had stepped back many paces, his mouth hanging open.

"Sherlock –"

"If it makes you feel safer," Sherlock carried on cruelly, "I'm afraid there is nothing the police force could possibly do by this point, so I shan't tell them about this little meeting of ours. All I am interested in, Mr Morstan, is knowing whether or not you indeed paid off your blackmailer."

Mr Morstan was breathing heavily, reaching for a nearby glass of water.

"Take your time," John said in a low voice. When he said it, he realised his comment was somewhat out of place.

"Alright," Mr Morstan said, after a few large gulps of water. "Alright..."

Sherlock waited for him to speak, oblivious to his panic. Mr Morstan breathed in and out heavily.

"What happened with the blackmailer?"

"I'll tell you! Just wait... Alright... Alright, I – I paid the man off..."

"How much?" John asked.

Mr Morstan hesitated, looking from Sherlock to John and back again.

"How much?" John repeated.

"A – a few million..."

A short silence fell. John glanced at Sherlock.

"Dollars?" John asked.

"N-no," Mr Morstan croaked. "British pounds..."

Sherlock straightened up slowly, a look of contemplation crossing his face.

"It – it'd be best if you didn't mention all of this to my dear Mary," Mr Morstan said desperately, his eyes on John. "For convenience and so on..."

John tried to speak, but found he was at a loss for words.

"We shan't tell Mary about this," Sherlock said, speaking for John. He seemed unbothered, now that he had found the answer for this case. "Though we should be leaving now. Come along, John."

John shook his head, rooted to the spot. "There's one thing I still don't understand."

"What is it?" Mr Morstan asked wearily. "I haven't got time for all of this..."

"You clearly had to pay a huge amount of money to keep this information safe," John said slowly, "but your company couldn't possibly supply what you'd need. This isn't a rich building – there's no way you could have much of a profit working in a business like this."

Mr Morstan shifted uncomfortably.

"John –"

"Unless money isn't what you traded?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock, who tugged at his arm. "Or unless... unless this isn't how you've been making your money?"

Mr Morstan turned bright red. In his moment of weakness, he resorted to the only defence he had left: anger.

"I don't like your tone, Doctor Watson."

"What aren't you telling us?" John demanded, panicked now. He realised Mary could be in danger with all of this.

"Don't make a scene, John," Sherlock muttered.

"But it's obvious!"

"Am I going to have to call security?" Mr Morstan asked, furious now. "Get out of my office!"

Sherlock pulled on John's arm and succeeded, this time, in urging him from the room.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Morstan..."

In the hallway outside, John tugged his arm from Sherlock's grip irritably. The office workers nearby rose their eyes to watch him. Trying his best to hide his anger, John followed Sherlock away from Mr Morstan's office, down a elevator, through a brightly-lit entrance hall and out the front door. It was a dismal, cloudy day and wind howled down the busy streets of London over the low hum of traffic.

"A few million pounds," John said incredulously, "is he serious? He must be insane to give all of that up instead of calling the police!"

"He must have had a very persistent blackmailer..."

"But where did he get that sort of money from? Tell me you know that, at least!"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know."

John tried very hard to get over his anger. There was only thing he was sure of. "I need to speak to Mary about this..."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

"Why not?"

"It's too much risk," Sherlock said. "She might tell her father – who, I'm sure you remember, specifically asked you not to tell her any of this."

"But he's hiding something, Sherlock!"

"Mary works for him, John. Who's to say she doesn't already know where he gets his money? He might be hiding nothing more than his financial troubles."

John had to try hard to overcome his fury at this. Did this mean Mary wasn't lying to him about her financial connections?

"It isn't worth telling her," Sherlock said again.

"Fine," John said in a low voice. "Fine... I won't tell her..."

When he returned home that night, however, he found that this was easier said than done. He tried his best to stay calm for Mary, but when she saw him, she seemed to suspect something was wrong.

He wished she would leave him alone tonight, like she did almost every other night, but she didn't seem to want to. She sensed his reluctance to speak. He felt terrible lying to her, but he told her that his stress was caused by nothing more than being around Sherlock Holmes for too long. She didn't know his connection to Sherlock, nor how close they had been before the last three years. She was sceptical about his answer.

For a few days, John avoided meeting with Sherlock. He was in low spirits; he didn't know what to do about Mary and he didn't want to cause more suspicion by going out again so soon. If Mary got involved in all of this, it would cause complications. John spent the majority of his time at home thinking about the case, mulling over Mr Morstan's lies. He weighed out the possibility of he and Sherlock finding out more about what Mr Morstan was hiding. If they figured that out first, John could work out whether or not Mary knew...

Whether Sherlock was giving all of this as much thought, John couldn't be sure. He wondered if Sherlock even valued his theory on Mr Morstan hiding something. He hadn't said much about it. He seemed neither impressed nor entirely dismissive of the idea, which was new. If Sherlock wasn't trying to prove people wrong or right, there was something else, something more, on his mind. Or was he just losing his touch, like Mycroft suggested?

John rubbed his face with his hands, sitting at his desk idly. Why would Sherlock agree to John's theory without being at all surprised? Had he predicted all of this? In which case, why hadn't he already developed a plan to find out more about Mr Morstan? John thought that maybe Sherlock was only interested in the case – Mr Morstan paying the blackmailer was this case's conclusion. He wouldn't care about Mr Morstan's secrets, whatever they were...

John let his hands slide from his face tiredly. This was all a rather big coincidence... Mr Morstan's office gets robbed by seemingly amateur thieves and Sherlock Holmes, of all people, is put on his case? It was a little suspicious. John wondered, for a moment, if Sherlock had requested to be on the case. If so, he hadn't done a very good job of it: John had guessed the involvement of the thieves' employer, after all. He had guess, too, that Mr Morstan had paid too much money. If John didn't know any better, he's say someone set him up to figure this all out.

John was ready to allow the thought to slip away, when another detail came to his attention. On the night he worked out the existence of the employer, Sherlock had seemed awfully prepared for a guest for so late at night... On top of this, Sherlock had seemed more than ready to make John join him on this case. John's heart was hammering in his chest, anxiety catching him. Unless Sherlock had expected all of this to happen...

John sat back in his chair, realisation flooding through him, mixed with horror and anger. Sherlock hadn't lost his touch at all, but Mycroft had been right about one thing: he was a very, very dangerous man. Feeling sick with fear, suddenly, John stood up, shutting his laptop. He cursed himself for his sheer stupidity, heading out of the room and down the stairs. He went to get his coat from the living room.

"You're going out?" Mary asked, pouting.

"I have to go speak to someone about something," John answered in a daze, reaching for his phone. He scrolled through, looking for Sherlock's name.

"How long will you be?"

John couldn't imagine why she'd care. "Not long. A few hours, at the most..."

On his phone, he sent a text to Sherlock, saying: _We need to talk. Where can I meet you?_ - JW

"Do hurry home. Dinner will be ready at around eight."

John nodded impatiently, turning to go. Without saying a single word more to her, he put on his coat, heading for the door. He received a text before leaving.

_Problem? Here's the address..._ -SH

Ignoring the question, John responded: _Meet me there in an hour._ -JW

He drove to London in a rush, encountering heavy traffic on the way. By the time he met up with Sherlock in a small café near his house, John was in a worse mood than ever. Sherlock didn't seem wholly calm when he spotted John; he adjusted his black suit over his purple shirt, watching John closely as he sat down.

"What appears to be the problem?"

John understood that Sherlock was nervous. He understood that he was contemplating the possibility of his manipulation being discovered.

"I don't know how thick you think I am, Sherlock..."

Sherlock was tempted, surely, to play innocent, but with one look at the ferocity in John's eyes, he was forced to accept that he had lost. "What have you found out?"

"You started this – all of this. You took an interest in this case so you could use the one piece of bait you had left to draw me in again to your insanity: Mary. It was all to intrigue me. You weren't trying to work out the mystery, you were trying to get me interested!"

Sherlock surveyed him for a long time, his own expression serious. He leant back in his chair, somber for the first time. "You're right."

John stared incredulously. "You're – you're just admitting all of this?"

"What am I to do, deny it? I won't be so crude. You've worked this entire thing out... So tell me, what are your theories?"

Dumbfound, John stared at Sherlock.

"Is this what you do to amuse yourself now?" he asked in disbelief. "Set up these mad challenges, manipulate people to see if they can work it all out?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock said, frowning comically. "These mad 'challenges' are all reserved for you, John."

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Did I laugh?"

Clenching his jaw in sheer frustration, John tried to find his bearings in this situation.

"If you wanted to get me to talk to you again, Sherlock, you could have asked. You could have done what normal human beings do and invited me out or – or anything!"

"We're out now, aren't we?"

Enraged by his casual tone, John had to try harder to keep calm. "You can't manipulate me like and expect everything to be fine, Sherlock... You can't put people's lives and risk just to force me back into working with you, to cause me to take an interest in this case!"

"Ah, that's where you go wrong," Sherlock said calmly, stirring a cup of tea in front of him. "I never meant to get you as interested as you were in this case. You worked out many things before I could lead you onto interesting trails. This became apparent when you discovered that Mr Morstan was being blackmailed... I didn't expect the theory from you quite so soon."

"Don't try flattery, Sherlock, it won't work."

"That isn't my intention. I mean it when I say that you were quick to work all of this out."

John shook his head, stunned by the complexity of all of this. "Mycroft warned me about this..."

Sherlock tilted his head back a little, thinking. "Is that why you were so vigilant?"

"Amongst a few reasons... One of which being I know you're insane."

A waiter arrived at their table, suddenly, asking if they'd like anything. Sherlock said he was fine with his tea. John ordered a coffee, knowing he'd need it. When the waiter left, John tried to find where he had left this conversation.

"What happened with the thieves?"

"What about them?"

"Did you tip them off about Mr Morstan's wealth, knowing they'd willingly blackmail him, or..?"

"No, that would be too complex," Sherlock answered. "What is more, I am not a criminal. It was a coincidence that they robbed his office and I took advantage of the interesting case; I took it as an excuse to research him, to understand why he was a target. I realised right away that it was his information and not his company's money that they were after."

John gaped at him. "Did you – did you withhold information from the police?"

"No. I had a theory I wasn't willing to share just yet."

John covered his mouth with a hand, staring into space for a minute. "You should be locked up for this..."

"For this? No, I don't think so."

"You're insane!"

"I couldn't explain everything to the police so soon. I needed further evidence to ensure that Mr Morstan's situation was known not only by the police, if I so desired, but by you too."

"Why did you do this?" John asked. "Why did you take this case? Please, Sherlock, tell me there was a reason, beyond trying to force me into your life again..."

"Of course there was a reason. Mr Morstan is hiding a deep secret. I wanted it to be known."

"What was he hiding, then? If anything."

"He's hiding how he makes his money. As it happens, Mr Morstan is an investor, of sorts, contributing to a dangerous, highly illegal trade related to the shipment and distribution of human body parts. Organ donations, mainly – if you consider robbing internal organs and selling them a donation. It's the black market for human flesh; the red market, some call it."

John shook his head, staring in disbelief. "And you expect me to believe you?"

"Yes," he said simply, "because it fits. Mr Morstan is exceedingly wealthy – enough so to give away a few million pounds and still believe he can hide it from his daughter. The fact that Mary is hired by him is curious enough as it is: why would he hire her, when she could work as anything and he could get anyone to work for him? It's to keep secrecy."

"I don't believe this."

"Why ever not?"

"I'm supposed to just believe that you've done all of this to – to what? To tell me how horrible Mary's father is? In the hope that I'll leave her?"

"Somebody had to inform others on the ill deeds Mr Morstan involves himself in."

"Don't pretend you did this for justice, Sherlock!"

"So you don't believe what he's doing is wrong?"

"I don't even know if what your saying is true!"

The coffee arrived. John was so agitated, he forgot to thank the waiter.

"You should be locked up for this, Sherlock, regardless of whether or not you've uncovered the truth."

Sherlock seemed close to shrugging. "You're probably right..."

"So you don't care?"

"I do, but I never intended anyone to notice my manipulation of this case. If you hadn't figured this all out, you'd currently be researching all of the things I've told you tonight. My early knowledge of the thieves would have gone unnoticed."

"But I guessed it all before you expected it," John pointed out, furious. "The only thing that stopped you is I figured it all out before –"

He stopped. Sherlock watched him over his cup of tea. "Yes?"

"You... you were supposed to be the one questioning Mr Morstan about his wealth at that meeting," John said. "If you had shown suspicion about it, I never would have realised it's too easy. I never would have realised that you've been setting me up to figure this out all along..."

Which, John realised, meant Sherlock had gone against his original plan. Something had stopped him. Sherlock wasn't going to finish his brilliant manipulation after all.

"What changed your mind?" John asked, bemused.

Sherlock drank the tea slowly, looking away.

"Take it as a gift," he said, "for Mrs Mary Jane Morstan-Watson..."

"Is that – is that why you stopped all of this?"

"No."

John didn't understand. Sherlock had stopped his plan too early...

"This was never for her," Sherlock explained quietly. "I wanted you to hate her, I wanted you to fear her father; I saw these hidden misdeeds of his as a huge opportunity to accomplish my desires. Until I realised that it wasn't worth the pain..."

This made sense. John was amazed. "You stopped trying to tell me the truth about him as soon as I said I cared about Mary, as soon as I told you I loved her?"

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"Upon realising your sentiment, this case should have been closed at you accepting that Mr Morstan had paid his blackmailer for his information to be kept safe, but I'm afraid I under-estimated just how much you learnt from me in the time we've spent together. I left you with too many planted clues, too many nagging suspicions, for you to accept the change I improvised..."

"I figured out in the meeting that he had paid far too much, that he was too wealthy."

"Yes."

John tried hard to process this information. He wanted to believe that this meant Sherlock wasn't entirely insane, but he couldn't overlook the fact that Sherlock had withheld information on the thieves who broke into a high security office building to start all of this. Even if Sherlock changed his mind halfway through this quiet manipulations, he had lied to John, he'd broken the law, and he'd acted upon crazed impulses that can't have been normal.

John stood up. He was shaking slightly – in anger or fear, he couldn't be sure.

"I'm glad we've worked this all out," he said in a low voice, "but I don't want anything more to do with you, Sherlock. You're still insane. I want you out of Mary's life and out of mine..."

Sherlock had expected this outcome. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance to. John left the table immediately, feeling Sherlock's eyes watching him. He left London as fast as he could.

But he found, very soon, that this information had ruined his trust for Mary. When he returned home that night, he thought about the secrets she was keeping. He thought, too, about how many many men and women's deaths had paid for the house they were living in, the furniture they spent so much money on, the bills and taxes and luxury good that were always easily paid for... He wondered, somewhat desperately, how much or little Mary could know about her fathers work.

John wanted to blame Sherlock for his distrust, but he knew Sherlock had attempted to go back on his plans. He had tried to avoid telling John the truth about the illegal trade Mary and her father were involved in. It made John suspect that Mary was fully aware of what was going on. He decided to avoid her entirely that night, as well as for the following week. It made him feel more alone than ever.

He didn't know what to do anymore. He didn't speak to Lestrade, Mary was hiding everything from him, and Sherlock was clearly insane. He had stalled the conclusion of this case just to get John's attention, he... well, he hadn't framed Mary or Mr Morstan. He had just found a crooked, manipulative way to make Mr Morstan's crimes known. When John looked it all up in the following weeks, he discovered that everything Sherlock had said about Mr Morstan was highly possible.

Often, John thought back to what Mycroft said to him. Sherlock was dangerous. But he was also a genius. He had become crazed as a result of the last few years, John knew. He had worked very hard in America to try and get his reputation back to normal, to fight Sebastian Moran, and in the last few months alone, back in England, he had gone through rehabilitation, which said a lot in itself. John supposed he shouldn't be so surprised that Sherlock was acting like this...

When three weeks passed and John felt progressively more isolated, he decided he had to do something about it. In frustration and defeat, he decided to visit Sherlock. He couldn't take being alone, talking to on one. He needed an explanation from Sherlock one last time, before it was too late.

When he arrived on Baker Street, the sky was pitch black. Night had fallen fast that day and it already felt later than ten O'clock in the evening. John knocked and waited for Sherlock's landlord to answer the door. He was a stooped, moody old man who barely said a thing, normally. In this dark evening lighting, however, he watched John sceptically upon opening the door.

"Who're you?"

"I'm John, John Watson. I'm here to see Sherlock."

"John? Aye, I wondered who he's always on about..."

"What?"

The old man didn't answer. He urged John inside with limited patience, eager to get back to his programme on the telly. "He's upstairs."

"Right... Thank you."

John headed upstairs, glad to get away from this strange old man. He stood outside 221B, about to knock on the door, when he noticed something odd. Sherlock's door wasn't fully closed. John was frozen, his eyes fixed on the door handle. Gently, he reached out a hand to push the door open, knocking on his way in.

"Sherlock?"

There was no answer. The place was quiet and dark. John closed the door behind him softly, stepping further into the apartment. There was no sign of disturbance; nothing had been knocked over or broken. Feeling nervous, John glanced at the kitchen. There was nothing there. He headed for Sherlock's bedroom.

His bedroom door stood wide open. John stepped into the room more willingly, seeing light inside and hearing soft movements. Sherlock was sliding the bottom drawer of his dresser back into place, kneeling on the floor next to it. John breathed out in relief.

"Sherlock?"

Without haste, nor any sign of alarm, Sherlock looked around. He smiled broadly, his voice quiet when he said, "You're early, John."

John was about to ask "What for?" but Sherlock stood up in haste, moving across the room. John didn't know why Sherlock was acting so strangely; he looked dishevelled, but he headed out of his bedroom in light, joyous movements. He began speaking to John at once.

"I don't know what Lestrade sees in our latest case. There is one hook, one tiny point of interest in Mrs Finchester's character, but how would Lestrade notice this?"

John said nothing. He didn't know whether or not Sherlock really expected a response.

"The case is only about a five, in interest," Sherlock carried on, taking a seat in his usual chair. "But I do wonder how it will end. Cold-blooded murder... It's refreshing, isn't it? I believe it's her husband, who did it. He seems the obvious type. Wouldn't you agree?"

John hesitated again. This was starting to feel too surreal. He hadn't taken his seat. He was distracted by the teapot and two cups sitting on the low table in front of Sherlock.

"Are you... expecting someone?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. Why?"

"Well it's just, there are two cups here."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, "One's for your."

"What?"

Sherlock brushed off the question, annoyed. "You can sit down."

John took the offer. Sherlock looked more disarrayed than ever. He was breathing heavily, rubbing his face with his hands.

"What's this case you're working on?" John asked.

"The case," Sherlock muttered into his hands. "You know the one. The new one."

"The case about Mr Morstan?"

Sherlock looked up from his hands. He was confused, until humour met him. "Oh, very good. Very convincing... The knife was stored in the son's bedroom, so what does this tell us?"

"Who's son?"

"We've been through this," Sherlock said restlessly. "Mrs Finchester's sister's son."

"Okay," John began unsure, "So, we're looking at a family murder?"

"Of course. We've been over this, John! How can you have forgotten? If you've forgotten, I've forgotten, and I know I haven't forgotten."

"Sherlock –"

Before he knew it, Sherlock was laughing. He ran a hand through his dark hair, staring into space with tired eyes. "I must have taken too much... This is too real, of you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Quite..."

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're on about. Are you alright?"

"I have my best friend infused into my own consciousness, how could I be better? How could things be smoother... Unless, of course, you were real. If you came back..."

Sherlock slumped somewhat in his seat. It alarmed John at first, until he saw Sherlock was smiling. His emotions seemed to change in an instant. John wasn't sure why, until an idea struck him. A horrid realisation.

"Are you –? Sherlock, are you on drugs?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He only laughed, as if this was an amusing joke.

John's mind was racing. He thought back to the first time he had met Sherlock here, when he had acted much like he was now: sweating badly, his hands shaking, his emotions changing strangely. The second time John had visited, Sherlock had seemed perfectly normal. The reason behind this was obvious: Sherlock had expected John the second time, and the third time, and every other time they had met until now...

John swore under his breath, alarmed by the situation as well as his own stupidity. Sherlock was hiding his addiction all along! Was this what Mycroft's warning meant? Since Sherlock never expected him to be here, he had begun taking drugs strong enough to cause hallucinations.

"This is how you've been solving your cases, isn't it?" he asked. "You've been getting high, having conversations with imaginary people."

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, surveying John. "That shouldn't be a surprise to you."

John watched him closely, seeing he was sweating heavily now, breathing unevenly. He sank back in his chair.

"Only Irene understands this, anyway..."

John had no idea if Sherlock meant another illusion or the real Irene Adler, but he didn't particularly care.

"How long has this been going on for, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up, doubting the situation now. "Why would you ask that? Unless..."

He sat up slowly, struggling to balance. He was watching John as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

"I'm real, Sherlock," John said shortly. "I'm not a hallucination."

He believed it for only a second. "No..."

"Do you want to bet?"

"I won't fall for that. That trick..."

"Sherlock –"

"You can't have got in here, anyway... ways... You don't have a key."

"I didn't need one. You left the door open."

"Very cleaver... a mistake of mine you cannot prove..."

Sherlock shook his head, bothered by an idea.

"You'd never come back," he said, "not really. Not after – after all of that. After all I did..."

"So you turned to drugs?"

"It's been like this almost since I came back to England..."

John felt like this explained a lot. Sherlock, however, seemed upset about it.

"I don't know why you moved on," he said quietly. "I don't know why you settled for the life you have. I need you to help me solve my cases. You were and are my only motivation, so I found a way to you... too... Have you, perhaps, found a way to make up for my absence too?"

John didn't answer at once. He felt as if he shouldn't be having this conversation with Sherlock at all.

"Of course, you won't answer," Sherlock said. "You never answer, because you can't... it's all an illusion. A delusion..."

"I am real, Sherlock."

Sherlock did nothing but shake his head, his eyes closing. He brought his hands together before his mouth as if in prayer.

John realised there was only one way Sherlock would believe him. His heart sank at the realisation. He had to answer Sherlock's question...

John had his answer for why Sherlock had been so insane, why he had taken on boring cares lately, and why he had manipulated John into his life again: Sherlock couldn't cope without him. He couldn't get back onto his feet. So, what was John's excuse? How was he surviving without Sherlock in his life? The truth was that he wasn't. He knew he wasn't doing well. For a long time, he didn't know how to put this into words. All he could do was watch Sherlock, thinking deeply.

"If you're wondering what I did to deal with losing you, Sherlock," John began in a quiet voice, "I've already answered that for you. I tried to find a way to forget you. Whether that was through getting a new place to live or trying to change my life entirely with Mary, it was all the same..."

Sherlock mulled it over. He seemed to struggle with the thought process; he sat up in his chair, clutching his head, breathing in and out heavily.

"You weren't moving on," he said. "You kept my scarf..."

"Yeah, well, I tried."

"Yes..." Sherlock fixed a disoriented gaze on him. "So, I suppose I must believe you're real, after all..."

"It's about time."

"I hope you realise I didn't fake my own suicide without reason, John... I did it for you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade... It was the only way to save you..."

John wanted to tell Sherlock that he knew this already, but he felt that'd make it sound as if it was worth all the pain. He wouldn't agree with that assumption.

"I know it wasn't fair," Sherlock murmured, "but what choice did I have?"

John had no answer. He tried to push his resentment and sorrow towards this subject out of the way, but he met quite a bit of difficulty in the attempt.

"You still didn't have to turn to drugs," he said eventually. "I thought Lestrade took you off of them, again?"

"I went back on them," Sherlock said simply. "Again..."

"Should I call him?" John asked. "It might make you feel better to speak with-"

"No," Sherlock said at once. "I don't want that..."

"I can't just leave you like this, Sherlock."

"Then don't leave."

John thought it over. He supposed that being here would still be better than returning home to Mary... Sherlock did look terrible, under the influence of these drugs. He clearly needed help...

"Alright," John told him, "I'll call Mary and tell her I'm staying here."

He stood up, reaching for his phone. Mary seemed to understand easily enough, despite John mentioning nothing about Sherlock's addiction. By the time he was off the phone, Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was clutching his skull again.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't answer. He was breathing heavily, his limbs weak.

"Sherlock?" John asked anxiously, stepping past the coffee-table to stand closer to him. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock's hands were shaking. John felt his heart skip a beat; Sherlock had paled significantly. He looked as if he was going to be sick, as though he was barely conscious. John hoped beyond anything that he hadn't overdosed.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock!"

He had a flashback, in panic, to Sherlock's death. Lying on the pavement, dying...

"I – I'm calling Lestrade!"

All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. He leapt across the room, grabbing his mobile from the chair behind him. He had Lestrade's number up and was ready to call him, when he heard someone laughing. It was Sherlock. John glanced around, seeing a bright smile on Sherlock's face, his eyes closed, his breathing evening out.

"I'm not dying, John."

John lowered the phone in his hand slowly. He didn't know whether to be more angry or relieved; he glared at Sherlock as a result, his mouth slightly open.

"What's more, I have no intention of leaving this earth," Sherlock informed him quietly. "Not now..."

"Yeah, well, you might not have a choice at this rate," John commented. He stood up fully, trying hard to hide his fear. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Fine... I need to stand up. I – I feel ill..."

"No, it's alright, just stay there. I'll get a bowl."

John moved swiftly to the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and slamming them shut again in search of a suitable container. When he found a large glass bowl that was likely used for experiments, usually, he brought it to Sherlock with haste.

"Here."

"Thank you..."

For the next few minutes, Sherlock sat woozily in his chair, clutching the bowl in his hands.

"Since you don't know," Sherlock began in a quivering voice, "I'm currently working on a case... You might be interested." He smiled. "It's of your level of interest..."

"I'm not here to help with your cases, Sherlock. Even if, rumour has it, you've been taking boring assignments."

"It's easy work," Sherlock mumbled. "It keeps Lestrade happy..."

"Is that why you've been taken these cases? To avoid his suspicion?"

"Did you not hear me say it's to keep him happy?"

At least he was trying, John thought. It was very unlike him to work for no personal gain. John thought back to what Mycroft had said about Sherlock finding other things to keep him thrilled and interested, if his cases weren't doing that.

"It should have been obvious that you were taking drugs," he said, more to himself than to Sherlock. "How else could you survive?"

Sherlock looked as if he was going to bow his head in agreement, but nausea caught him first. He vomited into the bowl, sweating more than ever. When he was done, John moved forwards to take the bowl from his hands.

"Will you be alright while I clean this?"

"No, don't... I'll do it."

"You shouldn't strain yourself, Sherlock. Just try to relax."

"I can do it, John. Just help me up... I need – I need to get up..."

"Pass me the bowl, then."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll do it!"

"The bowl is heavy, Sherlock!"

Sherlock scowled at him, sweating horridly. In defeat, he allowed John to take the bowl from him. Sherlock was on edge. Before John could turn to the kitchen, he spoke.

"John, I... I need more..."

"More what?"

Sherlock shook hid head, his eyes closed firmly. "I'll go through withdrawal if I don't take drugs soon... I was meant to take them by now, but this conversation..."

"It'll be hours before that, Sherlock."

"No. It's been hours..."

John said nothing. He went to clean the bowl out, but when he brought it back, Sherlock shook his head gently, his eyes closed. He told John that he didn't need the bowl. He was trying hard to sit normally.

"Come on," John said, recognising his exhaustion, "you can't sit in here, Sherlock."

"I need to work on this case..."

"It's late, Sherlock. You need to rest, come on."

John reached out a hand. Sherlock took it, reluctantly, and tried to stand. His legs were shaking badly. John supported him and eventually he was able to haul Sherlock into his bedroom, where his bed was already neatly made.

"I'm staying over, in case you've forgotten," John said. "I'll grab some blankets and make a bed in the other room. If you need me, I'll be there."

Sherlock gave an audible hum of understanding.

Feeling far from tired, John began setting up a place for himself in the living room, until he remembered something. He needed to get rid of Sherlock's drugs. He went to Sherlock's room, finding he was still lying in bed.

"Where are they?" John asked.

"The drugs?"

"Yes."

"Let me remember..."

Sherlock trailed off. John tried to think where he had seen Sherlock when he entered the house – near his dresser. John moved towards it, taking out the bottom drawer. To no surprise, he found two bottles of pills and a plastic packet full of white powder.

"Where else?" he asked, knowing this wasn't all. He didn't examine the drugs too closely.

"Under the lamp," Sherlock murmured.

Two more small packets of white powder were there. John couldn't help but stop, this time, and examine the drugs in light. It was heroine. John gaped at it, unnoticed by Sherlock, who rested with his eyes closed.

"Behind the mirror too, John. Taped there... and in a box, at the bottom of my wardrobe..."

When Sherlock told John of all the hiding places, there was a considerable pile of drugs in John's possession. He decided to bring it to the bathroom as quietly as he could, lest he should be caught throwing these way.

He wondered what the old landlord here would think about Sherlock's addiction, if he knew. In response to the death of Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was taking about as much care of his apartment as John had when he lived here alone. Did Sherlock still take visits from clients? Did Lestrade ever show up anymore? It was hard to tell.

It was highly likely that Sherlock could be hiding more drugs, but if John stayed here long enough, he knew he'd be able to gain Sherlock's trust enough to find the other stashes. This piece of knowledge made John feel safe, but it caused him a certain amount of distressed as he tried to ignore the question of: how long would he stay here for, exactly?

John returned to Sherlock's room when he heard him vomiting again. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his arms shaking violently.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm fine... It isn't as if I haven't... haven't gone through this b-before..."

John sat on the edge of his bed. He knew he'd have to be here for Sherlock for at least the next few hours, to be sure he got through this alright. He wondered how many times Lestrade had done this. Too many, probably.

"Are you – are you staying here?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, I'm staying here tonight," John reminded him. "I'm-"

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock interrupted in a hoarse voice. "But are you – are you going to stay by my side? St-stay in my life..."

John couldn't answer this properly. "I... I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock bowed his head a little, his eyes shut tight.

"I need you here, John... I – I need you in my life..."

John took the bowl from his hands, placing it on the ground.

"We – we worked as the perfect team, didn't we? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson..."

"What do you mean?"

"I need you for my cases, John. And – and I hope you needed me half as much... I know that you've moved on now, you've – you've tried to become a different person, with a new life... but I know it doesn't make you happy. I know it isn't right, to forget..."

John wanted to deny it, to say that had never been true, but he couldn't bring himself to lie – not only to Sherlock, but to himself, again. He considered Sherlock's words, watching him tense against nausea.

"I suppose you might be right..."

"Of course I'm right..."

John suppressed a smile. Sherlock's eyes slid open.

"I know I deserve to be ignoran-... ignored by you for – for a few years, at least," Sherlock managed, "but I don't know if I could survive all of that, John. I am not you..."

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Sherlock made an odd movement with his head that might have been something close to a nod. "I know... I'm grateful for that. Even if I don't know for how long..."

This wasn't something that could be responded to easily, John felt. He thought about Mary about about how being in a house with her was still worse than ever being in 221B, even watching Sherlock struggle with a lack of drugs...

"I don't know if I could go back to Mary, back to pretending everything is normal," John murmured, looking at his hands. "I can't pretend nothing bad has happened... I mean, you clearly haven't changed."

Sherlock laughed a little, before he could help himself.

"And I've – well, I've not changed much either. Not if I'm still tricked this easily by you."

"Ah, but you discovered my secret, didn't you?" Sherlock asked. "You're here, during a withdrawal, talking to me about my – questionably – evil plans... You never changed, John. You were merely lost. As was I, I suppose... but here we are."

John shook his head. "You still could have just talked to me, Sherlock."

"That'd be boring," Sherlock mentioned, "and neither of us were designed for that..."

As much as he'd prefer not to, John could see his logic. He was amused for a short while, until he thought about the secrets Sherlock had uncovered about Mary and the repercussions that John would have to face. Which, he supposed, was better than never knowing the truth. No matter how much the truth hurt...

"What am I going to do about Mary?" John asked, ignorant to Sherlock's strained state for a moment.

Sherlock looked as if he might not have heard this, but John knew he was thinking it over.

"Do whatever might make you happy," he answered eventually.

John nodded. He didn't see how this was much aid to him, however. "I guess I'll have to figure out what that is..."

"Happiness?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps I could help you," Sherlock said, absorbed in thought. "We could find it again together..."

John found himself smiling at Sherlock's words, despite the overwhelming stress he was going to have to face. He felt safe, for the first time, and almost happy.

"If things go back to how they were before," he said, "I'll be happier than ever..."


End file.
